There is some cliché in this 
like birdsong, but his fingers want to 
lust away your night time hours.

I’m sure you’d be surprised about 
how innocent emotions can be: 

The delusions of pride
The arousal of confusion
The slow weapon of shame

Let them each be reflected to you
 in the morning when the dew is 
there in the north and the old 

cars down south laugh in the 
premonition of heat.
His juggernauts left 

a triangle inside of my 17. 
And there is the hint of 
tears in memory, 

but men* do not cry. 

So pushing away hunger- 
That is alright. 
Not anorexia. 

Simply, I hunger. 

In my gut there is a television.
I am watching it brighten under 
the pressure(s) of my body.

I want you to take a look.
I want you to see the world 
as slightly off.

I want you to question yourself.
I want your insecurities to mani
-fest their destinies. Somehow, 

I want these things on my lips.
I will let them rest there, between 
sex and communication, and then 

I will swallow 

Down. 
Down. 
Down.

I will gulp passed cartilage apples, 
dream catching clavicles, passed 
lungs asthmatic tired. 

And a heart so red, 
so red there are cop car sirens 
in its shadow.

I will sign this in the language 
of my own fingers.
So different than his own, 

a cursive in pianos never played.
And I will direct you to the living room 
chair before 9 o’clock because 

five minutes after you are comfortable 
the movie always starts.

And I don’t want you to miss 
even the opening credits.

But most especially, I just 
want your company a little more.

It gets lonely down here 
in the dark and this way 

I can think about good touches
To replace some 
of the bad 

ones. 

Spring Semester, XULA, 2011 (~April)

:

I’m still too dis… something to feel much or say much about these words: ouch. Fire. Rape. The story of that night is in another poem, another room. This is the more matured realization of when I traded my sacredness to protect my home address and I used me as a bartering chip? Is that really how and what I feel about this?

I wonder how many apple seeds have been swallowed and how much arsenic is brewing hard apple cider down there– my GUT is an amazing instrument to harbor these dead children for so long. However, the re: Birth process is also rough. Mayhap this is the realization that even after more than 10 years I still have a lot/a long ways to go– i’m almost 30 as of this reflection.

Beautiful, beautiful, ah. The pain.

:

November 26th, 2021

Pronouns: Family + She + They

Mxs. Isa Lee Love Jones René, BAPS