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Elijah Bowen Dec 2019
i rather like the taste of men

on the brink of something.

mere seconds away.

i like the brininess of their belly.

the dead drop to their pelvis

and i so like it when

my gaze is in grease dollops

sly and

cut, by morning, onto their thighs.

this is no accident, because god creates

for worship and i am meant to be.

god creates me right now and tomorrow

and if you ask him, he will tell you that

i am no light touch, no wind-chime

brush in the mississippi november.

i am a rollicking thing.

i lean on you like truants on brick walls

chew up all the toothpicks

of all the diners from here to oakland.

i drum the earth with a flex as

tense as a cymbal and recline

in the suddenness of peeping eyes.


i will cut my teeth on you,

romp to the city of men,

and feed.
Hailyn Suarez May 2017
He clenches her throat, 
Squeezing her jugular with abrasive, demanding hands,​
Hands that used to smell of flower stems and home.​
Those roses had long ago died,​
Seeped into the kitchen tiles. ​

Feminine hands search frantically, helplessly,​  
She mumbles into his beat red face,
Begging God for help.
He dominates her, crushes her, blankets her in darkness.​
Vision blurs, blood pulses furiously to her head. ​

She tries to scream out the window,​
The door,​
The unseen skylight,
Into the crowded streets.​

Everything looks normal from the outside,​
Shutters drawn just so, the chimney smoking seductively in whispers.​
Passenger's see the house as a sanctuary, a safe haven.​
Inside, the walls are beat,​ bloodied, and bruised,
​Displaying black and blue marks, ​
Harmonizing with her beautiful brown skin. ​

"I love you too much," he groans pushing deeper into her flesh,​
Forcing his bleached fingers into her tormented soul. ​
A soul that had been whole once,​
Before he came, before she let him take hold,​
Before he became God.​

She gasps as fluttering images invade her mind,​
Her daughters' precious smiles, brown curls,​
Cloaking her dark mind in light,​
Filtering through the clouds.​

Liquor breaks the mirage,​
Forcing her back into the present.​
He's pressing his swollen lips to her forehead,​
Soaking in her sober, filling his nostrils with her scent.​

He still looks beautiful.​
He looks like the man she married at 17.
He looks God-like. ​
He is God. ​

Heartbeat slows, pulse un-rhythmically beats,​
Blackness devours her eyes, shutting out the perfectly formed home.​
All that's left is the soft giggles of her daughters'​
Echoing through her empty body.​

But, at least she sees angels.
This would be a spoken poem
Erin Hankemeier Apr 2014
Walking in the woods, there is human breath
A girl who has come back from the darkness of death
Her eyes shine in the moon of the night
Tomorrow, she will finally see the morning light
She has been dead for several years
There are maggots crawling out of her ears
The girl will walk for several days
Eyes set on the horizon gaze
On her grave, Beloved is her name
Her life will never be the same
She longs to see her mother’s face
To be held again in those arms of grace
She will not stop, she will not rest
Until she is safe where she feels best
On her grave, Beloved is her name
I wrote this poem as a class project after reading "Beloved" by Toni Morrison. We were to write a poem describing the scene where the character of Beloved was wandering the woods after coming alive after death. Her thoughts, actions and feelings were to be described as well.

I hope you enjoy!

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