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Literature Text
here is what i am feeling:
a. i am empty.
there is nothing in me.
bare, like my pantry bare, like my love list bare,
like my skin on lonely evenings.
or maybe i am not.
imagine, or think, catamount
climbing your organs
just to reach your larynx
where you
breathe.
no, that didn't do it
now- breathe
to push it back in the
pit it came from
only feeling the vile that it rises
instead of the blood
that it loosens.
b. i am unfurling.
these eyes hold cataracts not from age but
from ingenuity dealt by god
who didn't like the way my mother
spread her legs.
the world is my braille.
i feel her ovaries her womb her breast her
abdomen unhinging itself beneath my fingers. i feel
every spasm every movement every catch
of breath
i know her.
i read her
like the writer i need to be, like
no one else.
with every line though
comes an end and
i am feeling frantically
for my next verse,
only finding air.
the earth has become my agitator. it too
poises on the opposite side of the fence
with the rest as it watches me
with pity.
c. i am a liar.
i wait like doris day at the head of the table. i have made
supper and cleaned
china, the silverware
done the clothing, the wash
and blended myself between the shades of
hooker red
alabaster blonde
golden green
and hazel-
the color of woman.
i wait with a foot in my mouth,
a finger under the table
in my cervix.
he asks
out of all the things i ask myself
out of all the things i wished to be asked and
to leave my mouth
if i am satisfied.
he wants betty white, nineteen-fifties
pre-abandonment of womanhood
he wants betty crocker
not the woman, the name
red and white and full of
breasted goodness.
i tell him
that on the rare occasion i get to fucking myself
because he doesn't fuck
with sincerity-- only
a rush
for the taste of himself, his
ego--
barred through the sentence
"why wouldn't i be?"
Literature
scintilla
incensed candles flicker
with hot dripping wax melting
coalesced between my cavities and
having taken the shape of my teeth
i chant the song of the fallen ones
within my ribs and broken fists
„chivalry is the art of war” yet
i found it to be rather ominous
when they pulled my
filament bones out of my grave
and set me ablaze
in the vesper’s kindled ash to
bring solace for the fires quenched by
the wind
Literature
thalassophile
Silver light upon the sea
Sharp as scales, they slit the
Morning sun open -
Like a yolk it bleeds, ichor
Spilled thoughtlessly;
Smearing the fish belly white
Morning with a splatter of life.
Golden light upon the sea
Warm as palms, they stroke the
Turbulent blue -
Like a cat it purrs, star-chilled waves
Licking shores;
Tabby pelt flecked with shell white
And the gulls sing once more.
Literature
Wildwomen
I borrowed a horse last Thursday to hunt the Wildwoman. He was tall and painted hungry; She’d borrowed time, then disappeared.
I could not bend to pick the rocks. The horse kept kicking dusty circles. ‘Round the barn, the Wildwoman crept in boots that used to be mine.
We didn’t see Her till the last three barrels, where She sprouted from the grit between my fingers to silence shouting hands.
Winding down sore muscles, drawing ankles to earth, She traced my body before darting up my spine - straight line from heels, to hips, to Crown.
And in the half-breath the horse spied hay and tried to throw me from the saddle, She
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