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The Poet

She is staring over my shoulder

I feel her burnt kiss snag my ear

Trying to suck my earring off

Her ash mouth, black with cornbread sweetness>

Like music and rose quartz longing

She whisper, that ain’t right.

Frowning at my mislanguage

Always a disappointed sigh.

She too much like my aunts

Who drank their livers into roaches.

Drank their daughters into slivers.

Why do I hold my breath for you.

That you’ll come for me. Through the

Pen. Like I’m chosen.

She whisper.

Think again.


Poem of the Month for, www.writersatwork.com, January 2010.

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