Wednesday, September 20, 2017
Sunday, August 27, 2017
Saturday, July 22, 2017
They made castles from coquinas here,
building on broken bodies, order from disorder.
We collect shells that connote something
We misunderstand. They weren’t dead until we held them.
The computer rewrites each word.
It turns coquina into conquistador, victor.
means the content was never content. Neither am I.
You are complicit in this violence.
You have opened them up and pretended not to hear.
She understands their desperation.
Each holds on, holds on to the shell she holds in her hand.
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
|Aphra Behn, and an article I wrote about her |
before I became a "recovered" academic.
A whole, complete, perfect circle.
When you cracked me, made me
split in two, my body and hers, I
felt nauseous around scrambled eggs
and self-conscious of my own
fragmentation, a broken shell of myself.
Your shell is as porous, penetrable
as mine. Letters written in vinegar
seep in and write your wrongs on
white flesh in grey-green lines,
ugly and unpalatable, overcooked.
When I had your child, I didn’t break:I split
that which you refused.