the bloodied skeleton of a pelican births me in a land no better than the moon, my head cracked open by a can-opener and licked clean with foreign tongues
i do not tell my mother i love her and clothe myself anew with leaves and rag dreams bled dry, skillet-hot and fried into my bones
sidewalk chalk skies hover and my tongue can feel the revolution: there's a quiet thought, a quiet hymn, a quiet prayer
it reverberates underneath my skin. outside it screams
these rorschach clouds slowly manifest like blushes and bruises
my blood runs thin
tears fall thick
under ash fingertips the prairie crocuses yawn
open plains extend their jaws to swallow me whole
i allow them
ESTÁS LEYENDO
I, Girl
Poesíai am my own god, my own spirit, my own prayer. -- a complete series of 44 poems concerning girlhood, dread, and catholic guilt.
