There are burial grounds on my side of the bed, the clothesline swings in an empty melody
What does it think of these cold winds? Is it synthesising a lyric, a dance routine?
Twenty years of looking at eyes that wanted to make heaven a hell, I thought if I park
my troubles by your shore. I could almost have a dalliance with flowers birthing beneath us
Time is crucified.
The boat’s screams river bound
when I thought you were safe and sound.
It doesn't take long to pull up
the
anchor .
Why would you think you know my body
better than my skin
clothing all that there is of me
yet becoming the flesh of orange itself.
There are burial grounds on my side of the bed, multiple skins hanging on its shelf.
Would they know on the other call is my mother? Did I make it clear by edging them on the other side on a map between us? Or am I still voicing synonyms of negations in every language I know?
Today I am no longer walking into it.
My body a bilingual leotard throws a pebble in the future.
For the women burned at stake, I stand kissing the wells they were forced to jump.
For all the graves we emerge from
I am longer scared of the twists and turns your words will take.
My skin mine alone, we are rising in spirit and flesh
my voice no longer dangling in your throat
everyone will see the snakes
rising out of your head.
Today I am rising out of
every grave wearing all skins, touched and untouched
let me flesh this hell back to heaven today.
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