Monday, 7 November 2011

For My Lover, Returning To His Wife by Anne Sexton

She is all there.
She was melted carefully down for you
and cast up from your childhood,
cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.
She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February
and as real as a cast-iron pot.
Let's face it, I have been momentary.
A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.
My hair rising like smoke from the car window.
Littleneck clams out of season.
She is more than that. She is your have to have,
has grown you your practical your tropical growth.
This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.
She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy,
has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,
sat by the potter's wheel at midday,
set forth three children under the moon,
three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,
done this with her legs spread out
in the terrible months in the chapel.
If you glance up, the children are there
like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.
She has also carried each one down the hall
after supper, their heads privately bent,
two legs protesting, person to person,
her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.
I give you back your heart.
I give you permission --
for the fuse inside her, throbbing
angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her
and the burying of her wound --
for the burying of her small red wound alive --
for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,
for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,
for the mother's knee, for the stocking,
for the garter belt, for the call --
the curious call
when you will burrow in arms and breasts
and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair
and answer the call, the curious call.
She is so naked and singular
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.
As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.

Mulatto by Ashley Domique Mitchell Martin Lees

Do you know what it's like to be apart of two races?
Dealing with people about their cases,
Or trying so hard to put on two faces?
So you try to replace the dread in your heart,
Swallowing your pride and tearing the two apart.

But each time it gets harder because of their growing hate,
White's thinking Black's dumb, Black's thinking white's fake.
I'm starting to lose this battle, I'm starting to drown.
It's getting harder for me to tell white from black or brown.
Maybe this is for the best, maybe this is what each race needs...
Does it matter the color of skin when the heart before you bleeds?

Isn't anyone getting sick of harboring these two colors?
Each breath we take, the cause of hatred getting duller.
Being torn by two races, each with an historical stand.
Each one demands respect given by hand.
None of this was planned,
No, not by either man.

Stop this fight, Black and White,
Neither of you are wrong or right.
As I write my insight on this,
Something about the word "together" exists.
Reminisce, Black and White,
Calm down...chill... and let us all be tight.