I have come to
~~~~
These nightmare children
I cradle
these nightmare children I cradle
my poetry is not a dramatic yell,
it is of the theatre of darkness
and must be spoken quietly,
it must be recited with respect
my inner child kisses the nightmares
and I bleed poems from my white skin
and the poems shake with life
as the blooded words etch in deep
if I read it to you, you must listen
or you will miss my skeleton rustle,
you will miss the warnings
I have lived day by day through
for the humanity chained to my cells
has sorted out the hours
and organized the minutes
into this needy race towards death
I have cradled these nightmares
in trembling arms and feeble hands
that no longer sweat tears for you
because you are only my audience
this is what I will leave you
when I pace like the caged tiger
into your cafes and recital halls
and lay down my burdens
there where you sit untidily,
layered in the myth of clothes
and the politics of paper
that breeds the stories you live in
when I unwrap my children
and they raise their voices,
I never know for sure
whether you can handle
my nightmares
11/21/98
Copyright Debra Grace Khattab
Coming To Poetry
I came to poetry in desperation
my soul needing to name its wounds.
I washed my face in other's despair
hoping their tears would ease my way back into grief.
I hid books in books
covering up poetry
in adventure, in textbooks, in romance,
knowing my face would flow with their poems,
afraid relatives would read what they had done to me
with their words.
I brought along poetry
as I ran from home to town to city and on,
hoping to highlight the darkness I brought with me,
hoping the black lining which wrapped me
in this coffin of life
would soften as I pounded word after word
against its stream of nightmares.
I laid down with poetry,
a desperate whore willing to coin her virginity away
just to feel some warmth
when the winter winds
dipped below my hills of possibilities.
I laid poetry at gravestones,
I sang it where the ocean clutches the night,
I threw it on the floor of backseats next to the used rubbers,
I blessed and cursed lovers with poem after poem
until I knew that the only child that would never leave me,
the only lover that would die with me,
was the poetry that had eaten my heart.
11/19/98
Copyright Debra Grace Khattab
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