by Stephanie Ambroise

i am not a poet.
the creases in my fingers
do not exist
to bend
to the whim of my heart’s need
to expel verbal aesthetics,
my hand is at rest,
the lines on my knuckles
are not river or blood beds,
nor are they hieroglyphic
messages from ancestors

some days, the world kicks the back of my knee­caps
so i can fall asleep. here the air tastes like mango juice
cheek leaks at 104 degrees
and i wake in want of this dream’s origins.
to taste the air of some forbidden place,
and not write.

if heaven scribed haiti onto this earth,
just so my people can stand on this split glyph with
split tongues thunder split atmospheres
and with split hearts, spin and weave songs
of faith to keep at bay a naked reality of loneliness
too ugly for personal religion to let walk undressed,
and survive,
then they are the true poets.

some days,
there’s more poetry
swung from the neck of a headless chicken
pouring forth scarlet spurts of freedom
as his lifeless bodies thumps
to the dusty ground,
than in me.

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