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Found my voice under waves of death
Decaying, the chorus thinned to an anthem only mother's bear Everything licks out, Cries became murmurs of what filled lands green Fleshy screams Bloody whimpers Fields sugared in Sunday gospel Hear their cries their lord Open up your ears deaf lord South Jamaica, Mine and my mother’s and my mother’s mother’s grave, Barren land stretch for miles Full of symbols of decay and love, Water browned where they’ve washed their hands And tried their hands at purity Absolute. Absalom. I find redemption in the contours of your back
Weighing heavy on the breadth of your shoulders A map to vengeance, peace, freedom written in the notches of your spine Each freckle I come across a landmark, a victory I find hope in your hands Sprinkled throughout the callouses A warm cradle for actions, consequences, victory Found in the cup of your palms Each finger slots into mine A safety net, a promise Back then we were savages
back then we worshipped the moon as it was constant in its inconsistencies of shape and wordless in complaint of inadequacy. Winters were untameable so we rode glaciers to new lands preserved below fresh islands birthed hot and steaming from fire cooled sea. They say all angels have soft skin
And wings made of white They say they tread lightly And spin gold through the mere sound of their voice But they don’t tell you About the tearing of the flesh when the wings come How you never know how dark blood really is until it is all over your hands They wanted me to be soft, to be vulnerable But look how much that has taken from me Her mind too escaped to the green fields.
When the sun tingled her delicate skin, And her Ma’s clay-burned hands Were the only things that could heal. She remembered the cold winds of Spring– Sharp and essential. Like her Ma’s stern face, Or her Baba’s hands of metal. She dreamed of magic carpets and glossy mangoes, No more slippery stairs or crowded windows. But as she bundled her whole life in bandages, And felt the wet dirt Beneath her feet, Maybe the soiled boxes weren’t the Only damaged packages. i was born to feel. i was born in
vulnerability and heartache. i was born to know grief in my bones. i was told to perform. i was told that my pain made me unlovable. well, who would want me if my sadness was displayed, plastered on my face, through salt and acid, for everyone to see? it’s macabre, the sight of a lady crying. silly child, if the shoe doesn’t fit, do you not know to carve your skin till it does? it’s always your fault, has no one already taught you that? Long nights, I spend dreaming of a river
Winding between wooded plains and forgotten prairies Softly breaking to caress sunkissed grass Walls which shelter the aspiring ants I dream of the tulip fields claimed by the sun Serving as paint on the planet’s canvas A landscape soon to be perpetual Call me back
when the lotus flowers ache start rotting and fall apart piece by piece give me a ring and ask me to sing and I’ll do it like before don’t think I love you anymore but i’ll sing you to sleep once more for sure. I hate dandelions now; wishes are too big too sacred to let a passing thing keep In a fit of rage you call my name
I carry my calm to you and as you indulge in its crumbs I dine on the melees of your malevolence for I am but a repository of the spoils left from your wrath you are but a wave accustomed to crashing onto souls walking along the safe lines of the shore, leaving their peace plundered. Was mad,
Shying, And scattering. I knew waiting for me Was a firm seat. My heart was packed by Blocking and waiting. Between Death, My coincidence of delay of traffic stood, Doubtless and unknown. I liked him. He long understood me and We became the best of friends. He had killed the average representative Of travelers and the wanderers of romance. She was anticipating it - grief,
She remembered the last time, the searing suffering, and expected the same, again; inside she knew that their time together was almost done. But no, no, She was wrong, very wrong, grief changes and is new every time; it was different, but still distressing, the sadness was more heartrending, more harrowing, Now …. this time …. she grieved them both. Risen from a blood-stained sea, a maiden broke through the foam-coated waves.
She took her first breath. Pain sliced through her body as air filled her lungs, and she released a cry that shook the very heavens. Like a child unleashed from its mother's womb. Violent and desperate. Saltwater flooded her mouth, silencing her. Choking, she fought the waves that began to drag her from her birthplace. The force of the currents weakened her resistance to the point where fighting was useless. The waves, no longer daunting, lulled her into a sublime stillness, cradling her until she washed up on pearly shores. Today I feel like a Man.
My drowsiness marionettes my fingers to rustle imaginary stubble as weariness collects under my eyes, matching the half-melted snow that gathers where the street slumps. I weave around with my worn leather boots, brown with fibers amiss, and my posture resembling that of a writer or lawyer or professor or psychologist or editor or traveler, or anyone who is bent from the efforts of collecting voices around them and passing them off as his own, (though proud that he was the one to notice them and put them together in the first place) walking back toward his abode where some lady may or may not be waiting. As a child, I had a fear of spiders.
They scuttled, harmless, across hardwood floors, waited in dark corners, contaminated my skin on summer days in fields. I flung myself from them, repelled them. There was a moment when I grew older, I was walking past the rosemary bushes, I felt myself sprout four extra limbs, flailing them about in the air. I was becoming them. It felt strangely powerful. Did you know Persephone plucked
those damn pomegranate seeds- all on her own. Poor girl so desperate for some sweet, scouring nails into arteries for teeny red gems. The history of all hitherto existing society
Is the history of women and the other one Women who weld the world sitting on stools And the other one who spoils it sitting on thrones The female who is feline in heart And the other one who wears a lion face Women who are meek , responsible and considerate And the other one, proud, arrogant and aggressive Women who are mothers by role And the other one, a father by biology Women, whom in matrimony heed to social instincts And the other one who in matrimony prefer animal instincts Pass the salt. Say grace at the dinner table. Say this could be something.
We eat quietly by the window under sunbeams, listening to the music of a songbird’s serenade. I can’t remember the last time we had a meal like this, together and yet still so alone. If you could speak to me for the first time, what would you say? Do you want to light the candles? I ask, and you shake your head. They’re just there for decoration. Of course they are. The food is stale. Still, I eat because you have made it. This cooking, though unappetizing, is one of the purest forms of love. I will not turn it into one of shame. When we finish, I notice the chipped edge of your plate. Even in this silence we share it screams, I am here. I am lived in. A smile spreads across my lips, thin and wry. Today has been good to us. I watch the comedian
Whose energy is that of a fifteen year old boy And who dresses like one too. Who doesn’t need to even have a sense of humor Or thought-out jokes, Because, you know, As they say with a chuckle and Some sort of pride or admitted affection I still struggle to Find the origins of, “He’s just that kind of guy.” I think of the kind of person they say I am, And how there is no equivalent of this man Who has breasts; there’s no synonym. And I paid to see him. In history, a haunting narrative unfurls – a tale of women unjustly branded as witches. These
women, accused with unsettling ease of dabbling in the mystical arts and harboring powers beyond the human realm, found themselves ensnared within a complex tapestry of fear, superstition, and power dynamics. Their bond with the natural world and its enigmatic wonders set them apart. In moonlit clearings, they would dance with abandon, their voices intertwining in ethereal harmonies, defiantly casting aside the norms that society sought to bind them with. Yet, these women, enigmatic and misunderstood, were fated to confront trials that bore no resemblance to justice. Accusations of malevolent sorcery and dark enchantments tore them from their lives. They were shackled, imprisoned, and, in some heart-wrenching instances, led to the gallows. Their cries for understanding echoed through the corridors of time, unheard by those whose duty it was to shield them. No one makes women like me
with late December lovemaking or on purpose. Devastation heirlooms & lamenting at the girl I should have been stitch me together. I never owned this body. It belonged to all those men who took instead of asked. I can only seam rip a yesterday once or twice. There—I unknot |