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.

 

β€” Janine Serioux

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Life, Love, Poetry, Writing

Motherfucker

Why must you be a child all the time?

With those dark, knowing eyes

and just-five-more-minutes-please smile.

Can’t you see that I’m tired?

I don’t have the time to play with you.

Maybe Tanya and Tina let you get away with it

but I’m not one of your little friends.

Yet you still try to sneak your way into my bed

When will you outgrow this phase?

Creeping fingers caught in the cookie jar and all my

spilled milk.

‘Mama, how much longer you gonna make me wait?’

You know I hate it when you call me mama.

I don’t have the time to nurse you, burp you, or change you.

 

β€” Janine Serioux

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Life, Love, Poetry, Writing

Auto-parturition

One evening I lay in the bathtub and give birth to myself. near drowning in aΒ pool of a lifetime of my mother’s tears; purified and desalinated, strained through the marrow of my grandmother’s bones, with a drop of my father’s blood, the water chilled by his distance. hands strange and familiar come from surprising distance to rub my shoulders raw with encouragement and rejection. my lover’s fingers curl playfully around my throat and gently push my head under water but I struggle to the surface every time and breathe anew. slow and steady like they said to. my distended belly bobs, sweet amorphous cumulus. Every gasp ragged with indecision and humbling fear. I will carry this sense to term.

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Life, Love, Poetry, Writing

Wrath

When heΒ was wrong
(whichΒ was more often than not)
He turned my lap into an alter,
Tonguing out his prayers of gratitude
For my mercy and grace.
He thanked me for my constancy;
That I did not forsake him,
Though he was undeserving
And for forgiving his sins,
While knowing he would sin again.
I heard his prayers
With the serenity of the ocean
And stroking his head,
Answered inΒ the one language he could not understand
(Love)
“Vengeance
is mine.”

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Life, Love, Poetry, Writing

Satiate

There was a time when I split my veins for you and asked “what else do you want?”

Blood wasn’t enough;

Nerves, muscles too.

I stifled my screams and carved a smile from my horrors

And gave

And faded

And still you hungered.

Cracked my bones with you sharp teeth,

Honed on my martyrdom.

You grew fat from the marrow.

What else can you take, now that you have consumed all that is carnal

And I am a deathless soul?

– Janine Serioux

 

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