Life, Poetry, Writing

A Curse of Curves

A curse of curves ties my hands behind my back;

twists my ankles together,

leaves me gagged in an attic somewhere.

Men of varying pedigree climb the stairs

to rub my lamp-like hips

and whisper their interpretation of affirmation,

willing these chains off for at least a moment,

to take for granted a wish.

 

— Janine Serioux

Advertisements
Standard
Life, Poetry, Writing

Questions For People Who Don’t See Color

Congratulations on attaining this peculiar disability.

Forgive my morbidity but,

tell me, what does my skin look like sans color?

Since I am no longer black to you

I could not be grey either, since grey is a color too.

Perhaps you see me as truly colorless, a shape-shifter like water or air?

But even then, when the light bends through me

is it like looking through glass?

Am I to be just as brittle?

Can you still read the texture of my hair, the shape of my eyes and mouth?

Or is that more of the color you don’t see?

I must be a phantasm then.

No wonder you seem so scared,

All this pushback from a ghost.

What is it like to live a life so haunted?

And what do you see when you see yourself?

Can you see yourself?

Perhaps you are a ghost too.

 

— Janine Serioux

Standard
Life, Poetry, Writing

Cover

Some say small women can get away with wearing less.

Slim steel limbs and bud nipples on trim ribcages,

Skin fitted close like armor.

Their bodies hold a different revolt

That can be smuggled neatly in size 6 jeans.

They wage war in seed, planted within the walls of convention.

Then there are women like me

With thighs broad and lapping like riverbeds,

The body of a tree, branches bowed heavy with ripe fruit no matter the season.

How does one ready an orchard for battle?

How to shore up these shores?

What do you sheath this greenhouse in to prepare it for an onslaught?

— Janine Serioux

Standard