Us girls were born
With overblown pupils gulping down
Dim light. Hungry for the Sun
That loves us for our gold
And rich earth.
We were each visited once
By Her. Standing in the
Dead grass, dressed for
A prairie funeral.
She tilted her head back back back
And taught us how to extinguish fire with our mouths.
We will age exquisitely together
Wrinkled fingers twisting and wrapping around each other
Narrating our soft descent into madness: a memoir
In the name of every woman lobotomized.
“Don’t hiss, don’t spit ‘Oh, baneful doctor!’
At a man, like any man, looking to unfold
Flesh and reveal a shard of the Sun.”
i used to lie about where i live
god, don’t you love it when the sky burns softly orange,
its thumb puncturing a clementine,
its soft figures in a candle’s flame,
its shadow outlining a halo?
when i say i’ve lost control over my body,
i’d like it to be in the wine-drunk english major
raving at the typewriter kind of way, the
“i read allen ginsberg once and now i’m a communist”
kind of way, the “it’s 3 a.m. and i stole a shopping cart from target”
kind of way.
instead i’ve forgotten how to move
and my brain is tucked away in the rattling of my bedroom pipes.
in classic teenage fashion i try to romanticize my life anyway,
not like movies about poor black and brown boys and girls finding purpose
(i.e., scholarships) in high school football or math team or any narrative
that will ask me to one day spoon-feed employers
the illusion of meritocracy.
maybe more like
loving the pigeons loving public housing sunlight
“environmental racism will be the death of us,
but i don’t think the sky was this interesting a hundred years ago.”