author and managing editor of Slate Roof Press
The mother of all storms is upon us. We are taken
aback, our skirts blow up. We show our panties, bad girls
all of us, march off to school with our lunch boxes open.
Do you want my apple? Do you want my pear? See all
the fruit for the taking, piled high in a bowl, lacquered,
framed, left hanging from a wire, and screwed to the wall.
What business do people have walking down my path?
Someone walked up me and mine, took me out and laid
me on the sand. So this is love? Don’t make me laugh.
Do you want this apple, do you want this pear?
Please don’t teach your child to hate herself;
she will learn that on her own, everywhere.
There’s a narrow track between dunes and a shelf
of cloud overhead. Oh what happens when you hold your body
in contempt, and love your neighbor as yourself?
from Waiting To Be Born (Dos Madres Press)
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