Lorenzo Buford
I didn't want anyone to see the mess inside.
I had no housekeeper.
Roaches were in the cobwebs.
A teapot kept turning into a single
half cup of coffee that was singing a jazz song.
Images of insects were tattooed on the walls
like eyes of voices I didn't want to hear.
There were always footsteps;
footsteps approaching; footsteps leaving
but no one was there.
An Owl would fly sometimes from a dark corner
and attack me as if I was a field mouse.
Now, I sit at a table with a bottle of blood,
a loaf of bread made from newspapers,
and with a woman I assembled
from the carnage of daily life.
This woman that came out of me
would screech in my ear
causing poems to drip from my eyes.
My harlequin costume was my bed spread;
And my bed had become an open grave.
This woman would engrave my name on her stomach.
And then I carved the word 'Wisdom'
on my forehead with a fingernail.
A Weeping Woman bleeds
from a spear wound on my left side,
her name became my name.
I am waiting, waiting to be the Transformed.
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