From Quarantine

By Malachi Black

Somehow I am sturdier, more shore
than sea-spray as I thicken through
the bedroom door. I gleam of sickness.
You give me morning, Lord, as you
give earthquake to all architecture.
I can forget.
                           You put that sugar
in the melon’s breath, and it is wet
with what you are. (I, too, ferment.)
You rub the hum and simple warmth
of summer from afar into the hips
of insects and of everything.
I can forget.
                           And like the sea,
one more machine without a memory,
I don’t believe that you made me.
 
 
                          PRIME
 
I don’t believe that you made me
into this tremolo of hands,
this fever, this flat-footed dance
of tendons and the drapery
 
of skin along a skeleton.
I am that I am: a brittle
rib cage and the hummingbird
of breath that flickers in it.
 
Incrementally, I stand:
in me are eons and the cramp
of endless ancestry.
 
Sun is in the leaves again.
I think I see you in the wind
but then I think I see the wind.
Subscribe
Join Our Community
Subscribe
Join Our Community

Dear Black Child - Grace Storm Ad

Dear Black Child - Grace Storm Ad
Dear Black Child - Grace Storm Ad
Subscribe
Join Our Community
Subscribe
Join Our Community
LEVEL UP!
Drop your email and we'll send you 25 poetry editing guidelines to help transform your creative writing!
Send It!
LEVEL UP!
Drop your email and we'll send you 25 poetry editing guidelines to help transform your creative writing!
Send It!
Get On The List
We'll let you know whenever we launch a new event, competition or service!
SIGN UP NOW!
Get On The List
We'll let you know whenever we launch a new event, competition or service!
SIGN UP NOW!