Bodies are not shared resources. Your body is only yours. Don't trust anyone who thinks reevaluating capitalism means expanding their sense of entitlement, especially to your flesh.
Don't trust men who feel like the world has done them wrong. Don't trust anyone who is looking for a soft object for revenge. Never forget how soft you are. You are not an object, but they do not know this.
And now, recent sonnets:
11/12/2013
Just living is an act of ownership,
of having, holding, to grasp and to keep.
Every pound of myself, from heart to hip,
is only mine to sow and mine to reap.
We are the earth that is rotten and roil.
I'm worn of my cliche self-perception:
very tired of women as ready soil.
I will not lay flat for your incision.
Who is wary of the changing land laws?
Lines redrawn don't mean property restored.
I'm on my fours, my aching clawless paws,
stucking in a new place where concrete was poured.
This flesh is just mine, to rend and to claim.
I treat with it fiercely; protect my shame.
11/11/2013
Warm muddled blankets and my drying hair:
post-bath nighttime in bed. Notebook and pen.
I will be safe from what I cannot bear.
Believing childish things like that again.
I used to be small and unable to dream.
My mother was so tired; I was so scared.
I recall how foreign the hall would seem,
wanting to run through but I never dared.
I'm foggy with sleep, like morning mountain,
coated with white mist and the grey sunrise.
My hands are cloudy but each is a twin;
I can use them at once to close my eyes.
Sleep is no escape, nor a tranquil rest.
It's brightly failing a wide-awake test.
"I recall how foreign the hall would seem,
ReplyDeletewanting to run through but I never dared."
You captured a familiar feeling of childhood in a very poignant way. I really enjoy that line.