E Kerr
The Gray Rock Method
She demands an answer—she wants
to hear me confess, fall
to my knees and beg for her
pardon, regardless of if I didn’t
tell anyone—she hisses liar and I
turn to stone. I know she feels
like Medusa among my stoic
presence, powerful with just
a glance in my direction. Cursed,
this form of petrification
would keep me safe if she
tried to carve me out—stone by
bone—whittled down to small
malleable pieces, that she would try
and mold into remnants of a daughter.
The History//The Witness
your god calls me, //
sinner—know every saint
kissed my body before it was //
sent down and preyed upon,
left with pain, and pain is not //
a baptism into genius. do you know
where my body is now //
that its tissues decayed? there is no
grave, but I’ve begun //
mourning boyhood like it was
something once lived. //
