14 November 2017

Need More Water

I don't come from
witches. If anything,
I am dehydrated
and need more water,
like a mermaid
or a siren.

My home is driftwood and
weird, abandoned
particle board,
bloated, edgeless.

I am not as glamorous
as other secrets claimed
by the ocean.

My skin is
as rough as
my heart.

I saw myself on land,
and my home transformed.

I heard myself,
and I was hoarse and broken.

Where I am from,
ruts and roots
are pronounced
the same way.

That means
that I am not a witch.
That means
that I am a different imposter,
shaped from the clay,
or not.
Whittled from driftwood,
or not.

Or maybe I am someone else's story,
a dream captured,
looped in a child's mind.




09 November 2017

So Much Left

My advice to you:
Be an angry woman,
not a stern still-life
but a jaw-clencher,
a mom voice,
a "get back here,"
a "put
that
down."
Don't apologize.
Yes, write letters,
but also make calls.
Spell things out.
Be the type
to drink an old-fashioned,
for you are muddled sugars
with bitters
and damn,
are you tired
with so much left to say,
so much left.

06 November 2017

still ill

no place is safe
not a church
not a temple
not a movie theater
not a school
where you work
where you relax
no place is safe
from angry men
from "men with purpose"
from eggshell egos
no place is safe
each place has potential
for danger, for peace
for welcoming the fragile,
for punishing them
no place is safe
from us