by Stephanie Ambroise
i am not a poet.
the creases in my fingers
do not exist
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,
then they are the true poets.
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.