every time
i speak my own
name i taste
the blood of
my mother's bit
lip (&) held tongue-- a self shed
to take rein

o' my father's flatiron
sur/name:
the blood, reigned (&)
i remain—
sanguine & ruddy
after all
(these broods).

when I reached the age of reason I hit the ground,
running. the thought flits
across compact mirror smudged from years of overuse &
abandon, left behind
in purse bottoms and backpacks every time I switch up my style &
move on to something:
new/ fresh / else.  

a glance into glass &
I'm transported: a babe on white lambskin,
a second-hand nostalgia never wholly mine.
a missing, another memory removed,
a down-to-the-wire tally
added to the roster, unexpectedly
the emotional prodigy, ostracized
alongside destined veracity: as in my absolute
devotion to                                                               ­            TRUTH!
the time skip, a box-out, a blackout, a kindness.
a comfort over the desk chair where homework            completes itself
after countless 'mixtape playlists' limewired maniacally
alphabetized, rearranged & revised until dawn/

another decade/chapter: a bookworm,
a blockout, a maneuver 'round roadblock,
a machination, a manipulation, a deadening, a defeat,
an assistant Mother only a child
self, the intrigue... yet

here I am, a spectacle,  
a miracle, a smashing, a light on an island out at sea,
an accident, a ripening survived.

can I trust myself. to dive in. for/by myself?
when I lift the stretch of lambskin from an atticked brown box,
a painted porcelain plate hits the ground,
shattered.

my god is femme.
she is desert
                    moon
& every lone star.
she is fresh, roast hazelnuts
& breaks
                law  :  defiant
crystals slumbering
at the bottom of my mug.
she is both,
                      first
sip after sleepless nights
& the night     :     the day.
my god never
     rests, never
                      dies.
she is both,
       & always        
                        last.