Rebirth (not exactly a poem)

Have you ever wondered what would happen
if Christians really were reborn?

Would they come forth in a spiritual plasma,
followed by a glowing afterbirth?

Would they cry and turn red, or bring
a deathly silence until spanked by the hand of God?

Who would cut the ambilical cord?
Should it be cut?

Would they be ready to suckle right away,
or wait a few hours, not knowing what they're missing?

Would the labor be painful and long?
Would she heave and cramp?
Would she doubt the joy to come?
Who said birth was beautiful?

Would she scream and wish it away?

I think
yes.

A History of Domestic Violence

When children became "rugrats"

When every man in the office
wore a "wife beater"
under his crisp, white shirt

When the fellow in that movie
last night said
"mother fucker"

When you called my brother a "nigger"
and my sister a "bitch"

Language at 19 Months

After one of our seminar sessions on Bonaventure and Aquinas, two medieval philosophers/theologians, my fellow students and I were discussing the continuim of existance and the concept of existential fading. Perhaps we are more real at some moments and less so in others. There were several in our conversation who joked that existance was gained through the passage of time, a chronological acquisition of being. But I wonder, perhaps we are more real earlier in life, and become less so (not in all senses of the word) as we grow old and are jaded, hurt, socially constructed into gender, racial, and socio-economic roles.

These thoughts have been swimming around for quite some time now, and this summer, after the death of a young child in my community, "Language at 19 Months" was born. It has remained in a rough state.

Language at 19 Months
for Corbin and Karith


things are very simple here
yes means yes and no is flexible
we know this

pain hurts we do not want that
but when it comes we cry
i curl up somewhere and wait

you see laughter is sure to follow
we laugh because we’re happy
sometimes it’s hard to laugh alone

the sun is bright here
it burns my eyes and nose
a girl gives me her hat

she’ll be my friend forever
forever is longer than we’ll live
she’ll be my friend forever

there’s glitter here too
the darkness even sparkles

colors are colored a thousand times thick
someone smiled at me
her skin must have been layers and layers

and oh how i wanted to match
so i hugged her face with my hands
she left glitter on my fingers

a woman closes her eyes and talks to the sky
says she wants to see its face
i do

A Little Uncreative Prose

*Gasp*

It's true. For my friends out there who know me as the one who cannot and will not write linearly with a smile. . . Well, I'm not doing that either. I have a bit of writer's block, you see. Not from lack of ideas, but from too many ideas. Christmas holiday has left my mind hollow as a cream puff. Actually, there are still a few academic stressers bouncing around in there, but now my mind is full of imaginary stories and experiences. I want to write them all, but I only have the initial sparks of curiousity for each. Agrivating.

But it has me thinking. In the story of a person's life, who's to say the inner-world of contemplation and imagination aren't also valid, dare I say REAL, parts of one's story? If I were to write a biography, fictional or otherwise, would it have to be based on exterior events, or could it be an interplay between outer-world and inner-world? Or,perhaps, simply the character's inner-world/s?

For Your Health

When I say exercise,
you think of losing weight,
don’t you? Be honest.
Food is something that makes you fat.
Vitamins are supplements.
There’s a list—the good, the bad
—both will make you ugly.
Don’t touch.
Don’t taste.
Go run it off.

Run off even the smell.
Run off the desire,
the need.
Hunger. Can you trust it?
Once you start,
it’s too late,
so eat anything.
Eat everything.
You’ve failed.
Remember?

Food will only add
what you don’t want.
One bite and you are flawed.
Hide it if you can.
Health makes a lovely mask.

I Have Something Important to Say

There was a line of ants marching through the kitchen,
toward my last peach. I thought about snatching it up
and calling the exterminator,
but I couldn’t.

The drier buzzed during my afternoon nap.
Who set the alarm anyway?
Maybe it was the hot pink sweater
that left a neon calling card in the lint basket.

The photos in my album are starting
to fade—the edges separating
image from paper.
They are the only copies.

Daughter, Who is not Mine

They will try to divide you—body
cleanly from soul—and tell you
where your beauty lies.
No mosaic here,
no puzzle of pieces fit.
One loose shard, a fragment
of your being, will be
lovely and desirable.
They will prize and polish it
‘til it shines from wax and gloss.