Life of Lice
Back when I believed in things like God and Good,
G’s like low church bells on my mouth’s pallet,
I told my friend, how beautiful it is that a family
of fleas might build their home on my head and he told me
to pray to God, muted breath collected on pillowcase
as I asked God, why He made us so soft, baby skin
mice, and them so hard? Lice women and children brood
thirsty and week, we hear nothing of Acts of Violence
Against Women, against me, day after day,
until Back in 2001 when I asked for my first knife
and the man who wasn’t my father laughed
and said “girl, you’d have to be a boy
scout for that.” Between Him and Him
we good fleas hibernated for our couple
months, day after day, with no food but the quiet;
dandelions trying to hold on to spring,
and I tell my sisters, their yellow, yielding faces,
At least flees stay together while they live
on something much bigger
whereas the cuckoo is abandoned
in a strangers nest, a mistake, unwanted, and maybe the mother
could have pushed it from her womb, never asking
for the imposter,baby birds, flightless, cotton heart beats shaking,
breathy chests, like people but without limbs or mouths.
I wondered if they ever hear of a laws such as Violence
Against Women act, and that it could expire
when I glance at the bald spot on mother’s
head because her hair was torn from her skull,
taking Him for all that He Had.
And I wonder about the Independent Women Act
in a life punctuated by men who are not my father
and collected in blackened cheeks and aggressive cracks
in the wall, but we fleas need heads of hair, like back
when I sobbed on my bedroom floor and my mother
stroked behind my ears, pillow-warm,
touch like lavender, whispering baby,
its just for a little while, and my sisters and I,
we build our home in a stranger’s nest.
I look to her, broken skinned, and say we don’t need him
she nods, lipstick-caked smile blushing across bruises
hushing just for now, spending
her laughter to the phone, to him, you want this.
I ask why bother with Free Women
Acts when a man who is not my friend
touches my baby bird sister, and asks for her to need
his head of hair, and she wants to say yes.
Words like Grab and Groin, the soft Gs
turn hard, the growls of curses clog my throat,
when my friend turns to me and says,
you want this.
Back when I believed in things like God and Good,
G’s like low church bells on my mouth’s pallet,
I told my friend, how beautiful it is that a family
of fleas might build their home on my head and he told me
to pray to God, muted breath collected on pillowcase
as I asked God, why He made us so soft, baby skin
mice, and them so hard? Lice women and children brood
thirsty and week, we hear nothing of Acts of Violence
Against Women, against me, day after day,
until Back in 2001 when I asked for my first knife
and the man who wasn’t my father laughed
and said “girl, you’d have to be a boy
scout for that.” Between Him and Him
we good fleas hibernated for our couple
months, day after day, with no food but the quiet;
dandelions trying to hold on to spring,
and I tell my sisters, their yellow, yielding faces,
At least flees stay together while they live
on something much bigger
whereas the cuckoo is abandoned
in a strangers nest, a mistake, unwanted, and maybe the mother
could have pushed it from her womb, never asking
for the imposter,baby birds, flightless, cotton heart beats shaking,
breathy chests, like people but without limbs or mouths.
I wondered if they ever hear of a laws such as Violence
Against Women act, and that it could expire
when I glance at the bald spot on mother’s
head because her hair was torn from her skull,
taking Him for all that He Had.
And I wonder about the Independent Women Act
in a life punctuated by men who are not my father
and collected in blackened cheeks and aggressive cracks
in the wall, but we fleas need heads of hair, like back
when I sobbed on my bedroom floor and my mother
stroked behind my ears, pillow-warm,
touch like lavender, whispering baby,
its just for a little while, and my sisters and I,
we build our home in a stranger’s nest.
I look to her, broken skinned, and say we don’t need him
she nods, lipstick-caked smile blushing across bruises
hushing just for now, spending
her laughter to the phone, to him, you want this.
I ask why bother with Free Women
Acts when a man who is not my friend
touches my baby bird sister, and asks for her to need
his head of hair, and she wants to say yes.
Words like Grab and Groin, the soft Gs
turn hard, the growls of curses clog my throat,
when my friend turns to me and says,
you want this.