I. The summer the AC broke
Mom sat on the porch with the hose
running water over her painted toes.
Her belly, a soft round home, out and her
book rested atop. I look in the mirror and hope some day
clothes will fit me and all this fat skin will stop
spilling over everything- a body that looks remarkably
like all the women within a 10 foot radius.
How do I hate what I also love so endlessly?
I do it with vigor.
II. He feasts for days and he never
asks me to stop asking him to put his mouth
on the river of my body. The ceiling fan spins,
spins air, I feel on my bare belly, a home
he’s nested inside. The light is off, and it is the only
way I can let him sift until the sun comes.
III. Those hips look like they’d hold my baby
just fine- let me know when you’re legal.
IV. It is a game of chicken between this mirror
and me. My eyes trace the outline and I dare
them to flinch. When they don’t, when they rest
softly on the last freckle below my navel,
I breathe and promise to do better tomorrow.
See that? That would be my newest chapbook, all dressed up with nowhere to go…yet. And that’s where you come in!
17 poems bled over by yours truly, printed in between some fancy silver, all tied up with string.
I’m selling these lovelies all through April & May, and would love to send you one. Click the yellow button and all this magic is yours for the reading.
Happy National Poetry Month!
This woman is my best friend, soul twin, mentor, confidant, the person that keeps me from ripping all my hair out at least 6 times a day, one of the most skilled writers I know, a careful craftswoman of story and song, and a woman made from greatness. Absolutely.
If I were you- I would order the hell outta this book. It WILL be your best purchase all year. It will change your whole life around.
I’ve been in a pretty major depression for a few months now. I’ve alienated my friends, my apartment is a mess, my grades suck, struggling at work. It’s been hard.
I accidentally discovered this lady’s poetry right before I nosedived again. Some nights it’s the only thing that gets me through. She is something else. She talks the way I talk. She has rough edges. And God damn, her words. Her words. Her words.
I will ignore that radio static, because all I want are directions back to the lighthouse.
I believe I will get there someday.
I wrote this poem to honor all the people that loved me at a time I didn’t know how to love myself, let alone any of them.
Hearing that this poem rings true to people that I see so much of myself in is all the hallelujah I need.
When I say POOR What I am Actually Saying is (6/30)
Mom once made dessert with raw noodles/once made an air conditioner out of a glass of water and the ceiling fan/once made a plate out of duct tape/once made toilet from a tin can/once made a house out of a car/ once made an apartment out of a garage/ once found a homeless shelter that would take 5 kids/ 4 girls, one bed/3 years, 5 apartments/One mother, 4 jobs/ 5 children/ 6 mouths, one income/ Kool aid, no sugar/ Cereal, no milk/ Home, no house/Lunch meat, no bread/Classroom, no pencil/Parent, no father/Need, need, need, no want/government housing/ government money/ government cheese, milk, bread/ laundromat/ public space/ public transportation/ public education/ public healthcare/ no private/ no want/ only need/ only need.
When I tell you that this poem is everything, I am actually selling it short. I’m not going to tell you how many times I’ve watched it in the past few days, but it’s comprable to the number of times I’ve prayed. Shout out to poemsbydes for being exactly what I needed to hear this week.
I fucking love her. Defiantly a spoken word poet I look up to. Not only is she so talented, but this poem in particular really spoke to me. She speaks the way I’ve been feeling for far too long and it’s just comforting knowing that someone you look up to has been where you have been and got through it and understands. Let’s me know I’m not alone
Y’all. The more of these messages I get the more I am convinced that all my YouTube views come from the same 10 people. Am I mad at it? Nope. I’ve got the tiniest, most dedicated fan base in the history of all bases.
You eye magnet/ hand temptress.
How can I thank you? For all the night
clubs you’ve let me skip lines into.
For all the men you’ve lullabied
into bottom/ less drinks. The jeans,
like wrapping paper, you, the carefully
plumped bow on top. Traveling seat
cushion. All access pass. You jiggly
gift, bouncing joy. I am sorry
for all the dressing rooms I’ve wrongfully
wept in because of you. I am sorry
for all the nights I’ve cursed you,
hypnotized by smaller bodies. I am sorry
for attempting to hide, shrink, downplay
your glory. I praise you, oh glorious
butt. Oh, perky bottom. Oh, monstrous
gift. Forgive me, for I now know you,
mighty butt, refuse to be hidden.
Desiree is leading the way in female spoken word. Based in New Orleans, she is a powerhouse of emotion with an infectious sense of humor and a captivating voice. Picture a motivational speaker gone real-talk. Listening to her poems is heart-aching and heart-mending all at the same time. Each one is a roller coaster of emotions that, by the end, leaves you feeling like you got something off of your chest. Her most recently filmed poem is called Thighs and is NSFW, but absolutely worth watching.
My thighs say thunderous.
My thighs say too fat-for-skinny-jeans,
say wide, say open.
My thighs say cellulite, say bad tattoo,
say stretch mark, say pock mark, say ingrown hair.
My thighs feel upset that you only offered one bite
of your Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia.
My thighs say more, please.
More room, more beat to drop.
My thighs can dance all night.
My thighs want your thighs to work a little bit harder.
Amanda Oliver is all the wonder and all the woman. Here’s an article she wrote about women poets this month. Somehow, I made the cut. And she says the sweetest things