Prayer from a hole in the wall
I still feel your sweet fist inside me,
the pop of plaster and tense tremble
of knuckles that broke me into existence.
My sisters stare star-like out of bedroom walls,
brothers mumbling illegible braille.
We are eyes that never blink or sleep,
mouths that never cry or speak. Jaws unhinged
and open. Our teeth flake and shudder
when we breathe. We know you are always
listening: as we suck mouthfuls of cold air,
as we blow pipes in the night with hymnals
of rust and brass. This is the way we worship
the fists that birthed us, how we attempt to forget
the miracle of our conceptions.
I cannot imagine what fury roused you
to constellate your living room
like a burnt out night sky, what wound
sparked your spirit into a fit,
but I know when hands hold onto nothingness
tight enough, they inevitably curl
into fists, hurl their desire
on any kissable surface.
Your longing becomes a weapon
you cannot contain.
If my birth was an act of violence,
I will always be a hole in the wall,
a reminder of hands that chose to close and twist.