Mom of a 2 yo. An art student studying painting (watercolor) and printmaking with a minor in creative writing. I have been writing poetry since I was 13 it is my safe space to tell and figure out how and what I feel.
I. I see fish in my thoughts. Their bones spread out. Carved underneath a hollow space of soft tissue. I nestle myself there. Weeks I waited to go fishing with my grandpa. Tackle boxes much like coolers used to carry body parts. Boy from next door running out to us. We sit in the back. My brother, sister and I. Glances from the neighborhood boy pull me as we pull worms back on pointy hooks. His eyes like cockroaches crawling up my legs. He moved near and then away. My brother next to me checks my rod. Grandpa pulls hooks out of fat lipped brown fish. I see the boy from the neighborhood coming. He is almost on top of me hand squeezing up my shirt. A fish moves at my feet willing opens its mouth takes in my worm. It is silver. I watch as eyes begin to turn glossy (like fancy magazines you read but don’t buy) then I am bending down and turning away from the boy. There is a jolt in my hand. A movement of unhooking. And the fish is gone.
Elegy for My Grandmother
And love is bread baskets left in the sun. The bread turned hard. As stone. And men who walk past windows. The same men whom I see at night. Back when wall reliefs sprouted on flat chests. All the girls would stare out windows sit on porches with short skirts and legs spread. Wide. Licking fuzzy navel shaved ice off fingers. That later motioned at men to come near. On the porch you were safe from gazes filled high like towers. There was nowhere to prepare for men. But then again, there are no back porches in Georgia. What of men? She says. Of men who march of men who live in sheets. What of rooms where babies are made, are they holy? Do they shine like rain in silver pails rain that makes your hair grow? Standing next to the genip tree I see a dress that picks at the wind. It is yellow and muddled with dishwasher spots.
All I could think about was fucking. The way hipbones look in compressed charcoal. The feel of paper sheets under bodies/ bones and skin. What if humans had been clothed in something less solid? Transparent. Wombs seen through panties. Sometimes I look at people. I wonder if their bones have been broken. Do they look like blinds? Long smooth and tapered. Does it sound like the grinding of gears when they move against each other? And we just can’t hear. I bet during sex they are quiet/ they are sweetly moving like homemade icing. Swallowing. (Can bones feel a swallow?) gentle jawline and a hushing. A swaddling of bodies and bones. Gleaning.