Category: Poetry

A doe’s head, just her head, Midways in the county road. Raccoons. Possums. Squirrels. Whole deer But never a severed head.

Filled with excitement my eyes lit; Oh, what a majestic sight it is. A woman so unbelievable; Possessing such strength and perfect balance; Even the patriarchy would-be mum.

I had this recurring dream as a child in which my mother was eaten by an alligator.

(Beyond, in the metro, women dance while commuters move past, tied to their greater causes, ants for crumbs, mad for blood, seeds to leaves.)

Medusa, do the snakes snap at your fingers when you run a comb through your tresses? Or do they unravel their bodies, straightening into an Eden of hoses that could power wash the stains out of the enemies you’ve turned to stone?

Plummeting to the floor, a switchblade might resemble an Olympic diver, who enters the water as seamlessly as a pocketknife cutting into a piece of satin. There is much to be said in favor of competition, the results of which could be as arbitrary as a Powerball number.