the whole world went crazy
because the “Negroes” were coming down the street
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.
joy is exodus
a travel-weary journey
these psalms unending
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.
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