Friday, December 18, 2015

stigmata



my lover, he don't hold my hand
no, he likes to see me fall
eat it on the wet pavement
dirt and rain and leaf debris
all up under my skin

(he laughs:
no child, he says
it ain't like that

child, i ain't never let you fall
not you
not me

i ain't like that, child)

he presses his hand to my back
under my ink
between the blades
where wings grow
and the heat of him
it burn there like a sign

he touch my cheek
run the line of it
like he's the wind
like he's writing the line of me
this girl,
this how she be
how i made her,
the lines i drew

and i feel hot hot heat
under his touch
his laugh runs down
my spine
all them lines he drew

and my cup,
well my cup runneth over

every time new, girl
he says
every time like the first
he break this open
over and over like it ain't
never been broke

blood runs down my thighs
the true stigmata
the burning touch

girl, he say
child
i don't never let you fall
don't be that way girl







1 comment:

  1. This is very well done. While you may (or may not) be concerned with the end seeming brutal, the poem "earns that." The use of dialect is interesting to me, but not entirely sure what it indicates--not to say it's not right, just that it was something I thought about.

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