Hiwot Adilow
Mushiraye
I draw a wedding scene &
My mother spies the page or
I tell her about the aisle.
Either way, she catches it &
spits stop. Warns dreaming
of a knot will only tie me to
a war torn home. I look
at the drawing & find blood
on the page, a ring around
the bride’s eye. I decide
to keep my finger bare
like my legs were once,
un-bristled, hinged tight.
Rigid, whiskey lipped,
gripped like a bottle’s neck
full of violence I cannot slip
into love. Verily, I am
my father’s daughter until
one day I bleed My mother’s
way—quick crying war.
My body becomes a boat
fleeing a rabid shore.
My skin is spanned &
I dream the distance
safe.
On Leaving
I can ice my own eye and fly I learned it
from my mother her late night going
under one July’s drizzle through osmosis
and a shared twin bed I learned the body’s
rattle after ravage after rape she left and
I was left the only lady of the house no other
neck but mine to adorn with his hands no
other back to back against the wall but me