Thick as blood
Tied to the vows of the womb we shared
A woman’s bond through
Heartbeat and good intentions
Hailed from a broken ceiling,
Caused by a closed door.
Spread into rivers,
Deltas of the divine
Carry me to your Sirens,
Lead me to my sister’s.
String me in your Fate
Wrap me in Being
Tell me a love story
And wake me when my roots
Have finally touched the sky.
Sticks and stones
Won’t break the brown in our bones
But the words you spit
Might hurt you.
Fertilize the Feminist for the Fourth wave.
She is needed for the brigade.
Arm her with mirror
And tell her to call it Goddess.
Arm her with an audience
And tell her to call them Sisters.
Arm her with a voice
And tell her to call it Ancestor.
The Fourth Wave rises in Her name.
Arms unfolded, fists up in rage.
Steady as you watch her days.
Mother moon plays tricks on the tide,
Tempting one to hide.
She is needed for the brigade.
Unfinished feminism forms in the wake.
She drifts closer a little each time,
But you must show her the prize;
The Fifth is on the rise!
But have you heard her voice?
Angry as the caged bird. And somehow she whistles stardust into my sands of time.
Her voice picks up the sea and smoothes it like fresh sheets in the morning. Full of complexities and cosmos of which I consume. Bewitched. Bothered. But always begging for more.
The purpose of her walk has never been more memorable as when she stumbled in after that Tuesday night. Hair risen on her thighs. Arms lifted in the air to expose her essence through unshaven pits. She growls a purr of exhaustion and I leap to help her limbs. Tumble meaningless words between tongues and wait for the fire to burn out.
Today she gives herself a new name. She breaks the rib of her father and pulls it from her cage. She uses it to carve new letters of independence with rage.
With a roll of her eyes as a punctuation of pride, she laughs a charming tune of the caged bird.
And I watch her like static, anticipating and appreciating the rare glimpse of clarity through all the noise.
The dress fell above her knees almost too perfectly
The only hitch was a thread
dangling as long as the eye could reach
Slowly I pulled as lace came undone
until she was born again in flesh; mentally undressed.
Harpist, pluck for me your highest tune
leave it in an empty room
And let it dance the night away
Withering in the dark I made
Threads of hair weave into my pillow
Threats of time shake eyelashes
Pull the chest up first,
Heavy goes the head.
Can’t. Leave. Bed
Bite bite bite bite down on the sound
Lick the spaces, fill the wounds of words
It is as appetizing as the breath of
two vowels in love and helping each other exist.
So bite down on the words you can’t live without.
Remove your kalon crippled comatose skin
Reach inside your lungs
Repeat after me
“I am beautiful — I am beauty!”
Every morning and night for best results.
I wince between dancers of the gothic glamour
bathed in bodies I have never met
and we scream in unison a guilty pleasure,
feeding a poetic laugh.
I flow past eyes that will never see me and capture breaths I will never have.
But I live this everafter
After a world of great disaster.