Peeling an Onion and Finding a Mountain
I dropped an onion
on the kitchen floor today.
I remembered my mother
describing my poetry
as the cutaneous petals shattered
and spittled acrid juice
across my slow black and white memory.
Foxes dipped strawberries in chocolate,
grinned widely, and I without vices declined.
Make sense.
Make sense.
Don’t ever let anyone tell you
how to dream, she said.
And don’t let me tell you what to do either.
This woman
who hissed lies into my childhood
and blackened my blues
until she shook herself out of me
and finally cut father’s shoe strings
from her neck.
This woman
who I found myself Madonna-like forgiving
after her womb was exhumed
and transplanted in me.
I sit in loose lotus and watch her
string orange beads and gold coins
for my dancing hips
and I want to cry, Mamma,
the slavery is never ending if we stay here.
I want to pass green giggles of smoke
with her and propose we sell
every
plastic
disposable
possession
we own and sail back to Greece
to live as sun and water worshipers.
Make sense.
Make sense.
This woman
who spun handguns at her head
for the sake of saving my sister
from an open window.
She mistook leaving for dying once.
Now candles and feathers decorate
her home and she no longer fears
my defiant wisdom and these
haunting premonitions we share.
I want to say, Mamma
What birds are we?
Let the wax melt and be done with it-
Our wings spring from our hearts.
I want to wrestle the mascara
and hair dryer from her fists
and take her to my mountains
to show her how beautifully
people behave when shades of race
take the color of music and movement.
I want to paint her portraits
of my sweet handful of amazing lovers
without the veil of poetry.
I don’t want to be an onion anymore-
Complex and tearful
like so many faceless mirrors
fogged over.
Mamma,
You can keep wiping it clean
but I suggest you break it…
and feel what it’s like to smile
into yourself.
Make sense.
-KEA 10/22/01
on the kitchen floor today.
I remembered my mother
describing my poetry
as the cutaneous petals shattered
and spittled acrid juice
across my slow black and white memory.
Foxes dipped strawberries in chocolate,
grinned widely, and I without vices declined.
Make sense.
Make sense.
Don’t ever let anyone tell you
how to dream, she said.
And don’t let me tell you what to do either.
This woman
who hissed lies into my childhood
and blackened my blues
until she shook herself out of me
and finally cut father’s shoe strings
from her neck.
This woman
who I found myself Madonna-like forgiving
after her womb was exhumed
and transplanted in me.
I sit in loose lotus and watch her
string orange beads and gold coins
for my dancing hips
and I want to cry, Mamma,
the slavery is never ending if we stay here.
I want to pass green giggles of smoke
with her and propose we sell
every
plastic
disposable
possession
we own and sail back to Greece
to live as sun and water worshipers.
Make sense.
Make sense.
This woman
who spun handguns at her head
for the sake of saving my sister
from an open window.
She mistook leaving for dying once.
Now candles and feathers decorate
her home and she no longer fears
my defiant wisdom and these
haunting premonitions we share.
I want to say, Mamma
What birds are we?
Let the wax melt and be done with it-
Our wings spring from our hearts.
I want to wrestle the mascara
and hair dryer from her fists
and take her to my mountains
to show her how beautifully
people behave when shades of race
take the color of music and movement.
I want to paint her portraits
of my sweet handful of amazing lovers
without the veil of poetry.
I don’t want to be an onion anymore-
Complex and tearful
like so many faceless mirrors
fogged over.
Mamma,
You can keep wiping it clean
but I suggest you break it…
and feel what it’s like to smile
into yourself.
Make sense.
-KEA 10/22/01