Abattoir 1

To crave WHAT, when the day is an abattoir?

Daylight is an abattoir.

The police too show the power of love, by
refusing to allow it, blocking food from
reaching children, women, Warriors.

A man smiles into the face of a child. Who
knows what he will, in anger, do.

Some gestures are the same as other
gestures. There is no hope.

Are the same as other gestures.

Mine are not the same, even when
repeated, as if I can only act out my
craving for your mouth, abrupt as our
intersection.

The sound of cellophane in an upper room,
wrapping green herbs.

Do you know what inner pain is? What it
IS?

The sense of having an intention, of being
able to intend.

Remember the porchlight across the lawn
of childhood, a city banished at the end of
its beam.

Is there a hopeless gesture, a gesture
presumed (already) hopeless?

Is thought hopeless?

This thought of you?

In daylight, the walls fall, the abattoir
stands open.

I shudder, then.

-Erin Mouré