They lay their hands on me
Like strips of seaweed
I am calling up the dead
The dead of my family
I pull them out of the earth
By the hair, by the fistful
I scrutinize their bodies
Green as acid, for traces of mine
How can I stop looking at them
At their faces
Their lives pour into me
Through a silver faucet
I cannot turn off
The familial sickness
Surely it has congealed within me
All their awful particles
If I were the first born
Mystical or clean
Like a sheet of cotton
Twisting in the wind
No
I am a piece of slate stained
Scarred with the footprints of the dead
Are the confessing what they've done
To make me
To make me
They lay their hands on me
Like strips of seaweed
When I place my mouth at my feet
Unable to speak
I feel their malformed sadness
Comb through my hair
I am calling up the dead (they lay their hands on me)
The dead of my family (like strips of seaweed)
I pull them out of the earth (when I place my mouth at my feet)
By the hair, by the fistful (unable to speak)
I scrutinize their bodies (I feel their malformed sadness)
Green as acid, for traces of mine (comb through my hair)