IdentityI don’t want to be
nobody’s poet-tree no sorry song no mystery no Billie’s blues no one drop rule no rebel muse Stop caging me I am my own simple selves every one and no one you know at all. |
The Gospel of Mary MagdaleneI waited six feet
beneath his thorned flesh while it dried like butchered meat beneath Golgotha’s sun. Watched his head fall finally that ninth hour - the body hanging by its holes on the wooden cross they chose. Wanted to touch him like he touched me when he cast my demons out. Roll his limbs between my seasoned hands. Dress his body for the tomb. But when I returned full of spices to anoint him. I found an angel hiding in the rock, no flesh left to soothe and salve, a gospel of my own to preach. |
Mr. OHe had butterfly fingers
my cat-eyed man with cinnamon snake locks that teased my face when he swayed over me low and sweet and made me sing all octaves I used to love his locks the vines of his mind where I would climb cling and swing unfurling into myself and him The way he loved me kissed all my mysteries I could never wash his music from my skin |
Mother LoveMama I remember silent
lullabies
you braided gently into this head before bedtime. The room was dim and warm when you’d call me to bring tools to remake my head: two pillows, plastic comb, wooden brush, and blue grease. Then I was ready for our only intimacy. Placing the pillow between your legs I would sit waiting to become your creation again. As your thighs enveloped my narrow shoulders I wished I could sit on your lap instead, place my head on your breast But you unbraided the day’s blues from my hair, parted the unruly bush into four and commenced to comb. You’d massage bergamot salve into my scalp, untangling curls of anger coiled fast at the root. Systematically you’d work, raking comb and soothing salve, weaving dark magic in triple meter, then finally smooth each satin plait. While I, captivated by your perfect hands listened to the language of your love and tried to decipher the lyrics. |