Poetry

Willow

By: Rachel Chitofu

I’m bewraying the head at the back
of my neck. 360 degree rotation.
The human door mat, skull sculpted
but unhued
—thread of pointers. Red
alarms. Beach shells. footprints
—racially unspecific; lead to
the local store.
An unravished pour
of cold
black beer Mr Brown knows
where it’s from.

I’m ten tanned toes. Like big brown
bears
in makeshift heaven.
A new state of mind.
My mother—her deathly cliff
drowningly deep and incessant/
this year’s summer
fleet monsoon
Color of suppurated Fall
She died in the rain a believer
of some sort. Acknowledging
matriarchal heat.
Full forest-bud feathers opening.
Here: flesh and fear we are
the offspring of infants who loved
the wind bulging
sore with feet
beaconing heat,
chasing Spring:
the old dog’s nose lost on mellow
pumpkin down Yellow.
Liver street.

The winged Earth: circle-mounting its prey
will be the one prayer of man’s being saved.
Robots and spaceships they murmured alone
from a joint
humanly palm.
Every Ending: there’s dread
and red
for love bleeds in
our outwardly parts

Categories: Poetry

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