no poet lives here
no sir-ree
the women who lives here hasn’t
touched a mic in years
I hear she doesn’t even keep a pen
on her person anymore for
every time she leaves the
universe on a
tangent
no slick slang supplicating her literary
luminosity to piss off the academia
and i ain’t no snitch
but I have a feeling that wherever she is
she wishes her tongue was catapulting bricks in to the crowd
at a glass home owners association meeting
my mind is a wetland with red clay center
the ideas it produces are rooted in
nothing
fortified with a crackling layer of silence
that I fight like holy hell to dig beyond
I bet she and I would get along
maybe adulthood has also scooped out her gusto
with a wooden spoon
whipped up some unleavened dough from it
baked a good life
that gives her
daughter
a mother
worthy of the
title
but i ain’t no psychic either
my wildest guess is she is sucking cupcake
icing from hollowed fingers
crumbling sediment
in between home row keys
teaching her
child the rainbow of possibilities
that no longer shimmer
in between her
words
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Tagged as adulthood, Alora, daughter, family, life, living, Lizz Straight, love, motherhood, napowrimo, poem, Poetry
