Tag Archives: week 5

They…is that so fucking hard to say?

He. His. Him. Guy.
Is this what they think when I’m walking by?

She. Her. Her’s. Chick.
Is that what they think, can they tell I have a dick?

Hey Bro! How it hangin’ guy?
I hope they don’t know I tuck it up inside!

Hey slut! What’s up bitch?
The way women talk to me makes me itch.

What’s up homo? Who’s this dude,
with the fagot face, and the bitch attitude?!

Excuse me please, as I don’t mean to be rude,
but don’t call me by a gender I don’t wish to exude!

What should I call you, sick fucking runt,
which end do you eat on, a cock or a cunt?!

Whatever I eat, my gender won’t say,
but as for what you can call me, you can start with “they”.

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2014, Week 5: She

There was never a time when I was not she,
the long hair, tangled, the breasts (unimpressive,
akin to the flat russet stones I’d sought as a child
on the riverbank), the territory, hidden and strange,
some slick pink undersea thing, which the boys
admonished, said shave, shave, and I did.

I was never not she, never not one who did not
want hands, his, like the great green wings
of the luna moth, opening and closing, once more
smearing dust onto the skin of my waist; never not
one who did not, with her own mouth, ask for his.
I did not enter the world with a painted face,

I did not enter it with rouge rubbed onto either cheek.
Instead I slipped from the womb bearing precious salts
as my gifts to give, only to relinquish them to modesty.
I was never not she: foolish girl, foolish woman, scorned
and loved, a treasure, a burden; but then, suddenly

Saturn turned. The constellation points that ran down
the length of limbs and legs wavered, whole galaxies
mislaid. She? — me! — me, a foolish beast brimming
with lost bounty. Me, eyes dry and belly taut, barren,
biding time on the edge of a breast, a body, a blizzard.


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wild: break

weight of this cage crushes and peels back soul to bone, devours the marrow too
maybe leaves the edge of a hint to torment foggy nostalgia
maybe not, maybe just leaves an ache in the spine so strong you must sit upright
it pounds and beats and howls to break through time’s corseted hold, to
bend out of it, to crawl on all fours
to meet the sun creeping through the earth and up and  vanish in the heat 
move with the smoke unnoticed to beat the day

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Jennifer’s Week 5: Wild

Imma, Queen of the Insects

The water was thick with earth, and alive. It moved with unseen creatures. Small ones with legs that scattered, or ones with out legs that slithered. It never mattered to the girl that she wasn’t one of them, that she moved on two feet and was covered in skin, she let her body sink into the muddy pond anyway, and pretended. 

She practiced moving like an insect, contorting her limbs into angles and moving fast. Her skin grew soft from the minerals and her muscles strong from all the crawling and burrowing in dirt. Soon she secretly referred to herself as Queen of the Insects. 

“Imma!” Her mother called. And Imma emerged covered in the stuff of the ground, nails caked with dirt, hair wet and tangled, handfuls of earth worms for her to play with in her mother’s garden. 

One day Imma’s mom called her home early, the sun still high, and Imma was confused. Her mom grabbed her by the shoulders and said, “Look at you, you’re filthy! Your aunt is here to see you,” and rushed her to the tub where she was scrubbed red. Imma’s hair was combed and braided, skin oiled. A dress pulled on and ribbons tied.

Cabbage and potatoes and onions were spooned into wooden bowls and the three– Imma, mother, and aunt– ate the meal in silence. Imma wondered what her dead father’s sister was doing at the small house in the woods, eating food Imma and her mom pulled from the ground, food the woman wrinkled her nose at.  The rings on her aunt’s fingers were the same hue as the mead made of dark berries they drank at every meal, but worth far more as as she pointed out. “One of my fingers is worth more than this whole forest,” said Imma’s aunt.

That was the last time Imma saw her mother. A three-story house sat on a street with no trees. A pillow embroidered with Imma’s full name waited for her in her new home.

Imma, Queen of the Insects, grew into Imma, Home-coming Queen. She covered herself in make-up and jewelry and naked boys. 

“Come on, Imma! Pound it!” The girls sat around a table topped with plastic bottles of cheap tequila and vodka, paper cups, and countless cigarette ends stubbed into ashtrays. Music rose and fell with their pulse and laughter. Imma took a bottle and tipped it into her open mouth, bent her neck back and spilled the rest of it down her throat. It burned her sick and sweet in the stomach, and lay a hazy blanket over eyes, face. Some of the liquor spilled down her legs and she felt someone lick it off, it tickled and she laughed. Everyone else laughed. She said she was hot, her voice echoed in her head. Hot, hot, hot.  Hands touched her. Sweat, sweat, sweat. She let the hands take her shirt off, and fell back laughing.  

Sun fought its way through the closed blinds and Imma groaned and rolled over into a pile of clothes. Shit, she thought. It was past noon, her aunt would be waiting for her at the salon. Grabbing a black halter top and stepping over sleeping bodies, she found a bathroom. Imma looked in the mirror, her hair a mess of black curls. Like her mom, that much she remembered. She splashed water on her face and pulled the halter over her head and forced it  over her breasts. The maxi skirt she wore touched to the floor and hid her sticky legs, and that much she was grateful for. Her aunt would be mad enough. 

Imma burst into the salon where her aunt sat waiting at the front desk flipping through magazines. “You’re a mess,” she said, “They’re waiting.” 

Imma felt something crawl inside her, she wanted to wretch. The men waited on tables for Imma’s hands. “The hands of an angel!” They said. Or, “She knows how to heal a body, that Imma.”  She felt the familiar contortion of bone, lost herself in the mud of memory, and let her body hint at the creature hidden inside. 


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They say I’m different. They call me wild.
They don’t know the half of it.

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by | February 5, 2013 · 1:12 am

Talking Heads – Wild Wild Life


by | February 4, 2013 · 10:33 pm

Genevieve’s Week 5: Slut

The steel in your spine is hard, your hands are cold. He’s a kid. Just a fucking kid, you chant, over and over. But it still hurts. Slut, the S-sound snaking its away across the room, slurping peach schnapps and blue curacaos until it finds its way to you, you in the peek-a-boo see-through top with your favorite magenta bra underneath, you with the discount heels, citrus wraparound sash that snugs into your ankle. He grins and no one looks. In the morning the liquor swish-spitting your system will convince you that you can change memories as easily as CDs – first Placido Domingo, then Jose Alfredo Jimenez. You drive the I-94 through gray haze and coughing cars, wipers singing softly, Amaneci otra vez entre tus brazos. Your eyeliner runs.

A hot shower laps your skin clean. Maybe you are a slut. Maybe you’re some other age’s lost Aphrodite, a fingernail gap between her front teeth, lisping gently, painfully oblivious to the nasal huffs and gentle eye rolls of her devotees. Maybe you are, you think, and the mirror fogs up.

So this is what you do. You find the shortest skirt in your closet, snap on the indigo rhinestone bra and step into three inch heels. Dim the lights and shut the blinds. There is no grand entrance – no cue, no thunderous drum roll for a goddess tiptoeing a line she never even drew. Slut.

The bass muffles your body. Your hips are pulled by an invisible cord – a knot in your navel, senseless loops and frayed ends running down your legs. Your arms are all elbows, hard points on hexagonal shapes, fractured light bending. You move, you move – snake beast, coyote yip. Keep moving. He has wrapped it up – your shoulder blades, your wanting, your ass, your tongue wrapped into pretty little packages that were never his to give away.

Hare rattle, starling’s screech. Don’t dissolve for him. Don’t shrug on over-sized and bulky sweaters, don’t you become nameless. Somewhere, silver fish still swim upstream and belly flop beneath the moon. Somewhere, you are still alive.


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