Womanhood sits in my mouth, rotten. Boys feel around, hands like cups, Suctioning, fish-like, leaving half-moon Bite marks and blushes that vein out To hearts that do not know how to heal. They wonder why my response comes Flatlined, I guess I can’t reply when girls have to die before they come to life.
A Retelling of Oscar Wilde’s The Selfish Giant Hope slicing snow brings back a late March petal and a big, big smile flushed full in the darkening puddle of Boy’s eyes. Softness loosens itself among two hearts holding tight, hands folded light. Boy raises his plump face. He wants that blooming cherry-pink blossom just there above the […]
He comes to me from the nighttime coldon my ivy snow doorstep and me at my windowComes in big boots and coatsComes in with haircut gossip and grey rumoursMy wrinkle body is old and slow and silent listeningHe is a lonesome traveller blowing from north to east outsideHe is the fearless knight to save prostitute […]