|
the whole world went crazy
because the “Negroes” were coming down the street devouring light from want of bread, of pride, of dignity, of our liberation. this is our audacity-- to learn to pronounce freedom, for the brittle body to rearrange itself, with all the power, against all hope. (credit for lines used listed below) The Evening Primrose blooms only at night.
She unfolds dusky yellow petals in an embrace and, if you ask, She will tell you the moon has been lonely; busy peeling her craters open for a taste of warmth from the sun. Her moans have become melancholic-- "How solitary my existence, with only the babbling brook and hooting owl for company. Oh! What a wretched existence is this!" She turns her face from that which adores her. She is drowning in self-pity, teeter-tottering about her axis as if she is the only body in this universe. and what shall i do with my leftovers?
these crumbs attract naught be mice, roaches and men—all the same, just as well. if given the chance i am sure i could grow to stomach you instead. |
|
RSS Feed
© 2020-2021 Ashley Ward. No part of this site may be reproduced in whole or in part in any manner without the permission of the copyright owner.