Thursday, July 21, 2011

My working metaphor

i'd rather something edgy:
fingernails or cleavage
or blossoms on a fig tree

not this.
i don't want this
running through
all my best stories y lies.

i don't want my working metaphor
to be my body
or invisibility
or skin or fat or size

don't want consumption
don't want eating
don't want to swallow
each emotion

don't want food

i do not
to feed
on this

but i
am a poet
& this is
the meal


it doesn't matter
if you say queer
or gay or femme
or dyke

i am not insecure
about who i love
or what that
makes me

my only anxiety
comes from your
silent assumptions

so sure
that all those words
you'd never use
don't apply

Thursday, July 14, 2011

old tx seabed

my children's eyes

are full of fossils
on this ancient ocean floor

their pockets fill with
dust & dirt & rock
and the imaginings
of a vanished sea

nostalgic hijab

i miss the
tug & tuck
wrap, pull, down & around
no pins or clips but
practice, discipline, training
i miss the privacy
like a click of a closed door
the feeling that my body was
my own
& not
a public offering