Eric Ashford Poet Free verse

Just the Usual Red Eyed Nativity

There are stretch marks for every delivered line.
Skin keeps strumming until it runs out of sweat,
incipient and membranous they arrive
through a mutual tension. On their own
words  in the woods unseen,
but when pushed through a primal viscera,
they slip through wet and new.
 
You try to make them civilized and grown.
you know that eyes are upon you.
Birthing’s a messy affair
something you do behind swollen eyes,
a stress disorder that defies latex
or the collective humming of incubators.
 
Then you look down and everyone’s looking
it’s not a poem,  it is a configuration
of arrhythmic pulses,
meanwhile you swaddle an indigenous form
native to a ‘no man’s land.’
You hope someone will read it to the end,
but it’s not the end, it’s another beginning.

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