Life, Poetry, Writing

Netflix & Chill

After midnight Doubt seeps in though the gaps around my air conditioner

and comes to join me on the couch

Bathed in the mummifying haze of blue electric static

He wraps an arm around my shoulder

tips my head back

and kisses me full of fear.

 

β€” Janine Serioux

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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.

 

β€” Janine Serioux

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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?

β€” Janine Serioux

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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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