by genny ansong
gnaw your knuckles
like the cold slugger
you were meant to be—
wrought like dirt, writhed as the forest green twines
sprouting from
Mother’s hollow chest;
she used to be
your nirvana
before your
thirteenth birthday.
you want to put it in writing
of how stark girlhood feels during
the harvest season,
when all the little rice grains
doused in blood are picked
instead of pink poppies,
and Mother tells you
to feel pure,
to run free,
to grow teeth,
to dance!
to scream!
to weep!
you eat loudly—
gnaw your fruit
like the cold slugger
you were meant to be,
let the flesh trickle
down your lips
in the manner of
a holy woman.
this is the last supper
no man will preach.
i ask you about
the seven sallow baby teeth
chained taut around your neck.
you tell me it’s the dry season—
that your raisin skin is
soon to reap death
and Mother is still
spread out amongst
the hallowed hills
of rome.
a note from the artist--
To me, this poem revolves around several themes: a daughter’s cold regret; the pain and beauty of girlhood; the brazen flesh of womanhood; the rude finality of life and the remnants thereafter. I wanted to write something raw in its imagery yet tender in its meaning.