Poem

From the Inside

I shuffle through the shambles

of a once sturdy house

the sight of so many shattered things

Like the broken windows now fogged

by the breath of an ancient beast

walls open and I peer outside

to the place others gather

away from the truth

hiding huddled masses too weak

to face what they have done

Like pearls broken loose

spilling across the slick surfaced floor

of a ballroom too busy with bodies

now scorched and blacked , still hot to the touch p [banner_entry_middle]

the beads of rain fall through the opened roof

drizzle down on my smoldering skin

and sizzle against the charred remains

I know these hands are not my own

gnarled , glowing embers of knuckles

stumped by devouring flames

I always burn from the inside

White canvas tennis shoes , flecked with a spackle of early spring mud support the form of the young woman , a sharp contrast to the black rubber sling of the playground swing she stands on . Tall and lanky for a girl her age , the fourteen year old flexes to and fro extending and retracting her arms to force her body in a pendulant arc back and forth Long braids of dark hair , struck soft by moonlight , swim against the current of her body as she stares at the moon . The slow silvery crescent reflects back unerringly the somber mystique of her pale green eyes Framed by thick lashes , they settle wide on her elegantly sculpted face a face that would be beautiful save the scar . A white braid of hard tissue snakes across her left cheek from temple to lips , parting the smooth red splendor of her skin

I look in through the window of the new shop , like we needed another one of these damned things . When I was little I could do this for hours and pretend the face of the doll staring back at me was a reflection It always got interrupted though , some damned tourist would come along behind it and then stop to stare at me through the glass , like some kind of freak . Sometimes they even asked me what happened to my beautiful face , like they had to point out that it wasn ‘t anymore . Like I didn ‘t live with this thing every day . Once , there was the white boy in the back of a pickup truck . He had to have been from one of the local towns . I dunno what he was doing on the reservation . He called me maggot face , and I said I hoped his truck turned over on the freeway They made me apologize , but I ‘m still not sorry . I bet he gets drunk and drives too when he gets older . I can ‘t wait until we can build a casino here , I ‘ll get a job and buy a new face . Then I ‘ll never , ever look down again… [banner_entry_footer]