an eternal ocean of violence

Born in January when days were black
night could not be discerned from day,
my mother wept when they opened my legs
to see the lack of masculinity,
I could not grow the meat
to sustain her hunger,
laid instead
out as sacrificial lamb.

I used to wish you never gave me away
into a martial bed,
dressed as a small china doll
watching Him gather a vision
of lace and taffeta,
there were no hymns or hymen in those long nights.
I would rather have slept in the disused pig pen
great uncle could have castrated me,
I would have happily
watch the virginal blood spilling
all the way back to the slaughter house.

Daughters are dreaming
I can hear their confessions
seeping through walls
under pressure of deep sleep,
guilt under finger nails
mingled with the dirt and sin.
History will not repeat
under this roof,
the song of a night lark resonates from walls
as if I had caught and caged her,
I am the only caged animal here.

The wildness of my history gnaws
at womanhood and breasts
reminding me of femininity       
desire for my own kind,
awakening a long deeply drawn ache
running from nipple to navel and down
beneath folds of motherhood.

I cannot dance but have mastered an art
of choreographing myself into contortions
giving an observer insights of disordered chaos,
they come into the umber of my being
come under skin and lay deep
within me.

Where is truth.

Upon the shore she rests
 a woman bruised from the rolling of the sea,
breathing desperately,
despite herself,
her last moment  washing over her.
Naked but for the small amethyst
around her neck,
a noose or a idol of sobriety.
There are no words heard above the noise,
only the roar of water raging
against its own defiance.

There is nothing between us now,
but an eternal ocean of violence.