Pisces

featured in my upcoming book, "shoulders touching shoulders."

Pisces
by Regina K. Pride

Woven from mother’s hands
tucked beneath her breasts
the breath of Aphrodite;
the soul of Athena
streaming through her lips.

She wears a sort of solid eye
that glares like strained thought
positioned at the sun.
she wears a red lip
and black pumps;
she is dangerous,
can’t he see that-
father gemini who turns his back to the wind
to give her one last chill
before he takes her down, down, down.

By morning, she feels different,
a changeling soul within her.

Nine months end her battle with vertigo
and I am the product
of their misfortune-
twenty five years find them
cursing in the backyard,
spitting on the graves they laid out for themselves.

I am washed away,
naked,
carried out across the sand
after the eye of the hurricane
into the depths of teary blue
sipping salt sea wash with the manatees.

I am sitting on the rock
till my daddy returns,
but father gemini does not return,
instead he curses her name,
wishing never to breathe again,
feel this way again,
feel trapped in a corn field of disgrace and shame again.

I am swimming back to shore
to see mother,
see her wave a thin white lace napkin
at her suitors,
marry the first one she’d seen coming.
no more do I want to swim towards her,
but anything seems better than drowning in your own saliva.

I am tossed and turned
in the sea
through the green sky
and charcoal earth.
I am no longer child,
no longer girl;
no words can define me
except dirt- in my nostrils and on my skin.
I feel thrown out with the bath water,
vixen in the corner that fails at seduction,
tiny tug boat that sinks once it hits the water.
I feel a low drum beat-
three, four, five-
under my feet,
and I’m standing under the moon
in my prom dress alone,
wishing mother had been there to teach me all the ways to be a lady.

There it goes again,
but the beat’s gotten louder
and quicker
and it makes me want to dance,
but self weighs me down- an anchor to my tortured soul.
I don’t dance, I don’t talk, I don’t sing
only sit, creating ideas in my head,
like how to run away,
how to rule the world,
how to keep up this illusion
that I’m actually enjoying all of this.
all of these people.

I wish to reach out and touch every single one,
hold their hands, stroke their tender egos,
and individually write them a poem
full of sensitivity, sincerity, full of encouragement and sympathy
for all of their transgressions,
but I can’t. I just can’t.

So I mix them another drink,
hope they pick me first for teams,
and scribble the words I wish to say
into my cupped hands,
much like how the world was formed
and flung out into empty abyss.

I wish to write with my feet now,
curving toes like fingers,
connecting dots and arpeggios
trailblazing through time like da vinci
but then again no.

I wish to harmonize with the sister fates now,
but baby I can’t sing; it’s cold outside,
and if life hasn’t taught you something by now,
maybe this poem means nothing.

Good night

Author's Note

what needs to be fixed?