CPS

So Hades decided I was unfit to raise my child.

I, the woman who feeds the world, was unfit to raise Persephone.

I, the woman who makes grain grow, made Persephone too beautiful.

I, the woman who helps birds find shelter, left Persephone too vulnerable.

I, the woman who waters roses in remote valleys, abandoned Persephone to her nature, my nature, our nature.

The other gods acquiesced by saying nothing.

Zeus frolicked in my gardens, dressed in fauna, sleeping with girls.

Hera said nothing because Zeus slept with girls as young as my daughter.

Poseidon continued to lure girls as young as my daughter to his coastlines.

Medusa was my daughter’s age.

We all thought Hades was the best of the three, until he deemed me unfit.

Hades must really love my daughter, said Aphrodite.

He must think she can bring peace to Hades, said Athena.

He won’t blemish her body or spirit, said Artemis.

Maybe it is better for her down there, said Nike.

Hades has more means. Hades has Elysium.  Hades has everything.

In what world do I live and beautify that I, a goddess, am deemed unfit?

not so free, not so radical

all love is a hypothesis–
a guess about untested elements
with powers to heal or wound.

the most violent reactions
often form the strongest bonds.

we pretend we have education
by pouring ourselves into things
and hoping they take our shape

or we take theirs. but we are truly mad.
we are mad with desire to create.

we want the instants
and concentrated doses and we
neglect the non-toxic for all ages.

a tuneless song

i tell you friends it’s no small thing
to have a heart that wants to sing
to have a mind written in prose
hear a hymn and want to compose

a song is what i want to be
i want to live a litany
safety call with honest response
without a troubling variance

love is not my undertaking
it’s not for god or his forsaking
it’s not a plea or cry or woo
it’s just a part of what i do

why can’t there be a song for me
‘cause if you sing you’d be off-key
‘cause if you dance you’d trip headlong
‘cause if you write your words are wrong

a song a song i want to shout
i want to scream the damned thing out
a song a song i want to weep
i want to whisper it in my sleep

what if you somehow lose your voice
i have to sing i have no choice
what if you someday lose your nerve
then i will sing what i deserve

i will drum my syncopation
i will play live for the nation
i will sing the world to war
with a rhythm worth fighting for

a letter to my unborn children

there are four of you inside of me,
four of you named and waiting for escape.

i worry about my sons and the world
and how it thinks they’ll have it easier than the girls.

they’ll only have it easy if they take
the challenge to die for easy pleasure and association.

and they’ll have to worry about me
when i teach them to want more than outside coddling.

the girls will have it easy now
because they will not be taught to nurse and grieve.

the girls will have it easy now
because they will learn to plant and harvest instead.

my little babies who may never leave me,
if you decide to meet this earth with eyes shut and mouths wide

i want you to know this:
you start out planting and you will never stop planting when you leave
or when i leave.

i will learn to bring a being into life
so that when you get here, you won’t fear me or the flowers
i have kept waiting for you.

ani[mated](fe)mal(e)s

i am not a girl
no nor woman neither
i like smelling clean
just soap and lotion
and i like clothes
that fit so well
i seem naked free
walking in daylight

i dance to feel
not to draw wood
i walk to get places
not to get chose
i eat for pleasure
not to fit fashion
i love to live
i know nothing more

i am not a girl
no nor woman neither
shoes ground me
to my earth-soul
my skin is grass
hilly and pebbled
sun-baked and supple
brown and wide

my home is life
not a dress
my home is life
not a spouse
my home is life
not a career
my home is life
not a child

i walk outside
and i shout to live
i am my own
i am my own
i am my own
i am my own
i am not yours
i am my own

ribbons

these legs
lace around you in extravagance:
you are my favorite christmas gift.
honeyed gristle in the mornings
to be showered in
sweet dew is your name.
i christen you in my arms
as you whisper it into my throat.

reminder

sex isn’t just for beautiful people

and your libido is right

don’t look in any mirror

full-length, pocket, tri-fold

your soul will disown you

just stare into your lust

and touch yourself and remember

how badly you need bliss now

and you needed it then

and you’ll need it forever

remember that your body is beautiful

and alive

and present

and yours

“Shahid Reads His Own Palm” | Reginald Dwayne Betts

I come from the cracked hands of men who used
           the smoldering ends of blunts to blow shotguns,

men who arranged their lives around the mystery
           of the moon breaking a street corner in half.

I come from “Swann Road” written in a child’s
           slanted block letters across a playground fence,

the orange globe with black stripes in Bishop’s left
           hand, untethered and rolling to the sideline,

a crowd openmouthed, waiting to see the end
           of the sweetest crossover in a Virginia state pen.

I come from Friday night’s humid and musty air,
           Junk Yard Band cranking in a stolen Bonneville,

a tilted bottle of Wild Irish Rose against my lips
           and King Hedley’s secret written in the lines of my palm.

I come from beneath a cloud of white smoke, a lit pipe
           and the way glass heats rocks into a piece of heaven,

from the weight of nothing in my palm,
           a bullet in an unfired snub-nosed revolver.

And every day the small muscles in my finger threaten to pull
           a trigger, slight and curved like my woman’s eyelashes.

Family Business

I’m pretty bad with writing ongoing fiction; but I like this concept. I want to stick with it.

survivor’s nursery rhyme

trigger warning