real women are polished opals.
i am buried coal.
Zeus’s boys are in a rage.
Advantages not met with advancements
Turn their poetry to slander;
Galatea has turned to stone again.
But we are too old:
we were too old and too young to flee
countries, to outlive
earthquakes, hurricanes, rape, murder.
You are a thief of my flesh; you split me like plum leaves
too early in the spring. Disrobed of what protects me;
one silver necklace undone, cotton to the floor.
Before you I am bare.
On the few nights
the moon shone brighter than streetlights,
we would climb out our windows
to drink the city air.
Many nights I lie awake,
Remembering the violence
That ferried me into womanhood
Let's be pragmatic: you can't hold on to something that is dissolving in your hands.
red mud bundle where peaceable people retire
and kids end up, end up again
A rapid nib descends, amends once more
A pained farewell through piling drafts of irk.
If I believed in prophets
then my pilgrimage would have started
when I was eight years old.
does
exile
begin at birth?
some avenue. some narrow,
pitious side street. some
lightening bug carcasses
strung up, still beaming.
Darkness holds the hands of light
In the crescent of the sun
And the birds cry
And the sloths dance
And the elephants beat their drums
When I met your bare skin with mine, innocently enough
- hands in passing, an arm brushing by -
the roar of my heart didn’t reach your ears.
I didn’t hear the beat of your footsteps hesitate outside my door,
the silence a question to which I did not answer
yes.
Midnights, you occasionally lingered
in my kitchen,
flicking cigarette ash in my sink
and sipping champagne
from my last plastic cup.
