Poetry

I. in this house: sliding glass doors and deadbolts

Nothing says hostage like door and deadbolts.
At fourteen, I acquired a penchant for sheer shirts

and mini shorts. You were drinking vodka before dinner
hit the table and by 8:00, faced down inside the only queen

that took this house. I won’t lie – by 8:30, I splayed a boy
who thought I was fractured. His truth of me ultimately meant

nothing, like anyone’s god. By 10:00, I was back beneath
the sheets I own, but you’ve got one hell of a nose. Off

went my face. On went the deadbolt. You never gave me
much credit: in one week’s time I sniffed out the screwdriver

and ruptured that lock like any good scab. When someone is lashed
into their own skin, a proper spread is the only way to slip the cuffs clean off.

___________________________________________________________
© First published in Thirteen Myna Birds and included in my chapbook, 309.81 (dancing girl press, 2011)

The Woman Destroyed: A Poem

Simone

 

You-

you bleed in such small breaths;

droplets, not puddles.

You borrow my hand

without knowledge of fingers or wrists.

Without functions or mechanics. It’s all in

the verbs, baby. You.

Even now, you don’t get anything.

You are not the Great Pretender. Motion

does not matter in your trials of exception.

I scoff favors: I will write this

in a manner so you can keep

up, keep stealing without properly fitted gloves.

You, so weak in the spine you

dis/joint

when it’s time to dismount.

I think you like the ride too much,

except you don’t know how

to groom the horse before you saddle.

Should you steal my child, too?

She is blue eyed, blonde haired puerto rican.

She is no one’s white bitch. Watch closely as

my lover lets me lick the crispy part

of the pernil while he whispers

que linda, mami. A Puerto Rican

tongue is a blade.  I own one. Yes, you bleed

in all the wrong places,

like the main artery of your upper thigh.

You, small white bitch. You small thief. You,

just so small; the other woman

in Simone’s story. You beg to make it

our story, too.  But you’re a small sapling

in this word canopy. I cut you down

with a deft pen.


© all mine.

Inspiration given credit to:

1969

1969.