you could say he gave birth to Pandora's box and we left it on her doorstep
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a poetry and prose anthology centered around politics, civil rights, feminism, self-acceptance, love, etc. and inspired by artworks.
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this art piece belongs to and was created by Francisco Goya.
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he holds the ugly wrench poised like a knifepoint above a soft human chest pierce the fragile fluttering tapestry pray someone keeps the parlor locked after the heat goes out after they finally kick us out evicted with nothing to our names but a father's name and a mother's suffocated corpse his absence asleep on the cushioned chair he only ever gave a hot iron brand sink into flesh, char us mark us in death we will be poor and destitute in every sense of the phrase kept late into the night so he can revel in our hollow fingered praise we chant at the nightingales we screech to the toads and crawl down dirty roads with perfectly exhausted askance his name not even a crumb a gift a bone to gnaw on call us beasts, lips slick with saliva it drips onto the leather arm of his chair and slides into the crook of his arm he doesn't twitch or sigh he snores and rumbles but doesn't bat an eye as we beg and atone for our unfixable ways a filthy inexhaustible source of energy prehistoric and predestined no mere mortal tool could ever mend supernal injuries such as ours held like festering babies in our bellies for centuries on end brewing depravity in our odious hearts
give us lend us hand us divinity loan us throw us grant us morality
he sits up and then he stills the recliner creeks we watch in wonder as he buries the tool in his own hand you could say he gave birth to Pandora's box and we left it on her doorstep
