I don’t like where this poem is going.
Don’t be perplexed.
I knew it was coming.
Knew it was too honest
When it entered.
Took up roots in my heart.
Grew like dandelions in a desolate
Pretty and pesky.
Picked and blown.
Riding the breeze into my mind.
Seemingly ungatherable puffs
Force my hand.
Sometimes the swiftness of change
Feels like the rapture.
The promise of tomorrow disappearing.
Today’s hope.
Yesterday’s victory.
Vanish.
The gift of time.
Stolen.
Sent to a home boxed by imagination.
The cause that effects you
Becoming a stranger in the mirror.
Of course the grass isn’t greener.
This is a dry land.
A fruitless nation.
Do not plant the seed.
There are no tools to sow it.
No workers to water.
No last names.
No inheritance.
No generations.
Vacant womb.
Aborted possibilities.
This cradle.
Warm and empty.
The sweet nectar activated for
Suckling can not be coaxed.
This land is your land.
This land is my land.
From the sweeping peaks of my thighs.
To the valley of their meeting.
From the rolling hills of my breast.
To the great plain of my abdomen.
To the winding roads of my hips.
Untended.
Unintended.
No consequence.
Consequence implies blame.
There is no reason.
I reason with fear.
Cowar at the thought.
That whoever He is
Will belaboringly love me.
That he too
Will wrestle…
In His heart.
In His soul.
In His mind.
About the conditions of this land.
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