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Literature Text
i.
peacock feathers of smoke
brush over my calves
the plumage working its way
through the stockings & skin
to nestle into the muscle
where it will root like an acorn
and grow into an oaken pair of wings
to lift my feet from hardwood floors
so i can dance
with my knuckles brushing against the ceiling fan
ii.
my heels rocketed from the floorboards,
crushing my body against the whirling blades
leaving a tremor that fights my hands
as i measure tea with tiny metal spoons
& ease the leaves into a hemp bag
coconut and lavender rooibos all over the kitchen counter,
unexplainable face twitches, and achey shoulders
peacock feathers of smoke
brush over my calves
the plumage working its way
through the stockings & skin
to nestle into the muscle
where it will root like an acorn
and grow into an oaken pair of wings
to lift my feet from hardwood floors
so i can dance
with my knuckles brushing against the ceiling fan
ii.
my heels rocketed from the floorboards,
crushing my body against the whirling blades
leaving a tremor that fights my hands
as i measure tea with tiny metal spoons
& ease the leaves into a hemp bag
coconut and lavender rooibos all over the kitchen counter,
unexplainable face twitches, and achey shoulders
Literature
couldn't blue
i draw a picture of
tomorrow morning:
a man in a silver box sells
75 cent coffee and bad bagels.
his shirt is the kind of blue no one ever
tried to name a crayon after.
dust-plastic blue,
tried to love you
(couldn't)
blue.
and the morning is that same color,
the color of canned lightning-bugs and
unfiltered cigarettes and desire,
because that is all you
draw with couldn't blue.
i pay him 1.25 in change and purse-lint
so that a fourth-world factory can make more
silver boxes to sell more things
more stale blueberry muffins.
and he will keep gathering change
in 75 cent purse-lint increments
in the small sinking townships of
Literature
Birdcage
Nothing ever happens the way you read in the history books. In war there are never two armies, there is only a field of men. Never a number of dead; but individual lives snuffed out. That is what the subject of history is, years shelved and decimalized. Birth and death, graphed to the simplicity of lines. Great wars a footnote to the next great war. The achievements of men and women plotted out against the bookmark of day, month and year.
And somewhere amongst this, my mother breathed. Somewhere danced in now long-closed nightclubs, laughed at jokes told by a younger version of my Father. And then the unpin-able moment she fell in love with
Literature
Into a Congo
Shocks rippled south
realmed a loss and screened a track
stacks strung low and around again
She wanted the feeling of mica between her teeth
like lashes on a chiseled tree
totaled through and ruffled down
up and around again
Court and run south and
sandalwood
wrecked a home, she sat still
her knees knit together
unraveled over and into raw skin, over and into
she bloomed her hair into a Congo
It peeled like rose petals beneath her feet
a sheet strung high and low and around again
She said tell me why, but her fingers curled
around your head, around your neck, slowly
and then her shoulders
loosened
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