The Passengers Unwilling

At a poetry festival the woman

reads ten minutes of documentary poetry to an audience of writers.

Or a bus, the 3am Greyhound from Detroit to Baltimore.

Or a church in the middle of Valdosta where the fans in the pews come from the funeral home.

But we aren’t.

Neither bus schedule, nor quiet churched.

 

The sin then, is the milkmaid in her skin,

the waif in her stance; the machine gun made a mouth

not short on ammunition.

 

And when she asks us not to clap between poems,

we know who is driving.

Or she is showing how well she teaches.

Or separating who should be smart enough to get it,

and who should be bullseye.

 

The sin then, is not in the creation of the genre, maybe.

It is art in a clumsy hand, possibly.

It is a thin thread of academia posing too well as privilege, probably.

Or service with a soulless homily

Or driving with an antique map, this big bus full of us and

we are all missing the turn

When is the turn? Did I miss

 

the turn?

 

Or am I just not smart enough!

We, not equipped to drive this black as night bus from one true place to another?

Are we sensing where the sin comes in?

 

I shut you off, writer woman; collector and carnival barker of exploitation

I shut you off. Like I’ve practiced,

too used to white people with audience

being awkward with words and calling it art.

Or how the weaponry, stay plenty wounding asking the hurt

to plug up, or at least bleed conveniently.

 

Or maybe this story isn’t your bus to drive

You’re all speed, straightaway, promising a turn;

a lazy ten & two, a steer too big to wheel in and time’s

running out. When my friend said, the writer meant something else,

I tell her kind heart: “this is how I learned to walk, why I choose to drive myself.”

April16, 2016 – 4:30pm

---

Wither

 

I have been trying to tell you of my rotten teeth,

or how I used to drink a lot, but not anymore.

How that doesn’t mean damage undone.

I have been trying to tell you of my rotten teeth.

How recovering girls look like oyster shells, no meat or pit

an iridescence in their ascent, but jagged still.

 

I have been trying to tell you of my rotten teeth.

Before we kiss, I want you to know

I see the wither in my right front tooth

I know the candy hearts behind the zombied enamel.

The gutting and cracked ones,

the crooked and worn ones.

I know how a dying nerve and un-swallowed blood

turns my exhale into July on the leaf of a skunkflower.

I don’t want you to kiss me without knowing I know,

or knowing I don’t think I deserve

to be kissed.

When I was drunk,

and hurting, I neglected myself expertly.

Now it shows in my smile, in

my silence, in how I keep

my affection

to myself.

If you choose to kiss me,

I might linger a little long.

Recovered lovers don’t get kissed too often.

I swallow my blood, cover my smile.

I punish my wither with an unfair amount of want.

I’m rotting away, pretty sure this is what I deserve.

If you choose not to kiss me

I’m pretty sure, I deserve this too.

 

---

My Bestfriend 

Believes

she has done me a service

Knows

how to make me understand

Hurts

my feelings, sometimes

Is

more important than I am

Is

going through

and my heart is always broken, right?

Is going through

and I want for her wealth

I cast

but my spells are not about her

not anymore

Is

harder to talk to

when I hide things from her.

Is

my hiding place,

just not as much right now.

---

Angelique Palmer was a finalist at the 2015 Women of the World Poetry Slam, representing the city of Washington, DC. A staple in DC’s poetry scene, she self-published 8 chapbooks and toured 15 major cities in support of them. Her poems have been fearured on Button Poetry and Poets & Writers Magazine Youtube channels. Her publications include Borderline Magazine, and the Mud Season Review. Her first full volume of poetry THE CHAMBERMAID’S STYLE GUIDE is available from Sargent Press.