if someone spits dirt upon me
my lips become chapped
like grandma’s apples baked on the stove
I cannot act as if nothing happens when I’m hurt
or as if I am the caravan going on in spite of the barking dogs
because I am alone and unique and vulnerable
though I am not beautiful like the moon
the way some women were in the Arabian Nights

I am still calm and meticulous with a quiet ticking
and I believe that I am more like the mole underground
than like the lady-vulture up in the sky
and no woman will act to imitate me thanks God
especially if she had danced at her wedding to be blessed
like Rachel Sarah and Rebecca
and no man will look through my eyes or borrow my ideas
if he collects stamps and engravings
because in my brain all roads cut short and straight

too many people are born through C-section
but are the other births really clean and pure?
when in fact only fire is clean and cleanses
and things are truly separated from one another
as for the rest only mishmashes everywhere
father son holy ghost

Categories: My poems in 2016 | Tags: , | Leave a comment

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