Places

I was dropped from a black hole

part hurt fledgling

Wild Thing

bird of swift wing

part hothouse flower

wilting

neglected

in the desert

 

I am square peg

in round hole

way too dense

of emotion

 

I do not fit well

in the world

 

my spitfire tenacity

ruffles too many feathers

while my soft underbelly

is ripped raw

from the teeth of daily

indignities

 

unwelcome

as an overly plump raindrop

plunking cold and abrupt

on a spring sunned bosom

it slides anfractuous

joined apace in feigned ennui

A Walk in Your Shoes -Unrealized

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I slip my feet into your shoes

wrinkling my nose

while I distract myself

from the odor

of sweat and rough pebbled roads and

difference.

I remember the first time

a person of color told me

she had grown up

thinking white people

smell funny

like wet dogs

and cringe under barrage

of memory –

my defensive inner monologue

(thank the goddess it was my inner voice)

at how wet dogs smell

GROSS

I pride myself on being

clean

and my naivete clamoring

I don’t have a smell

though of course

we all smell of something

and perhaps I

reeked

of unacknowledged privilege.

 

I brace myself

embrace the experience

bury ringed and painted toes

in concrete shod heels

gird ankles as I lace up

tighten the knots

haves and have nots

reinforce resolve.

white-collared fingers

split and crack

while flipping the coarse hewn pages

in the atlas of your journey.

I mimic Nellie Bly

hell-bent on exposé

ferret out your footsteps

along the turbulent trail

I clamber to the summit

of perilous mounts

I could have sworn

(cursed prodigiously!)

were foothills which

barely broke my sweat.

there are serpents

camouflaged as flower stems

they struck at me

when I stopped to smell

ah, the roses!

as they invite us all to do.

 

winded,

eyes dust-caked

I stumble upon it

the X-marked spot

that place

that unites and divides us

no treasure here

you rubbed and rubbed

with spit and pencil stub.

it is blurred around the edges –

the twisted-tined fork

in your back road

that haunts you

as it ill-defines

you

contemptible or vile.

 

I have arrived

at the close

vaudevillian excursion

phenomenological circumnavigation

manifest and destiny

obscured

I tug your boots

from barking dogs

massage blistered

tenderfoot

contemplate chipped varnish

adorning well-mouthed toes.

3 am, New Motherhood

thousand pound eyelids

sweetly sticky shirts

breasts transformed to boulders

heartrending squalls

nipples chafed and raw

delirious hallway treks

panicked phone calls

milk drowns suckling mouth

mislaid wet diapers

silky infant skin

 

(art:Vicente Romero)