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P
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after Sylvia Plath and Władysław Podkowiński

 

Hey horse, hey friend,

 

I like chrysalises. We need more tenderness,

not less. Emerging from a foreign field,

 

my neck in your arms. Pale arms, holding a black-berried set

of eyes, holding me. I loved you,

 

loved you further than the recesses of myself into

my melanin. Hey horse,

 

stagger me downwards with a blacker blackness.

Event horizon me. Pupil me. Flat-and-sharp-key

 

me. Eyelid me before the opening of

 

an aubade. To die pretty as lace: these poppies

re-engineered for an imagination beneath my

 

shirt. I skirt around this handling of my body

of me, tonguing so sweetly, my hair. I curl for you with a largesse

 

unheard of by my ancestors. And I cannot resent

the woman I love. The woman I love

 

will touch my hair. My hair will

 

touch myself when the light spills open,

fresh as the disaster of lungs. To speak with the certainty of

 

your fingers pulling out my tongue. The snow outside

and the shadows of ourselves against the walls—

 

nothing here is racial. Only our usual pleasure

igniting itself into another pale exultation of

 

unborn children. Divine me. It will only make me feel

more real to know the pain of your mind,

 

thinking somewhere, riding into another red sun

not imagined by me. Still, the indefatigable hooves beat

 

only for every other woman who has loved me, beat

only for you as I have made you here. And another horse

 

on this horizon, holding me as myself, inking itself

into dawn. I am alive. Pretty.