There is a part of me tonight
standing in a cornfield,
still,
in the warm evening.
The green is licking all over my brown skin,
and all I am is thistle.

I’m leaving those who ruin me,
those who assert their kindness with loaded guns,
and break promises with burning crosses.

Oh,
this field could be a cocoon, and I, its changeling.
My feet rest damp and I dream of one day waking up unmade. I can leave that in
my other life.

I press my hands on my middle twice.
Once for them,
that they will be forgiven
and once for us,
that we won’t even be asked to give forgiveness.

And I am the thistle
moving through and through
and through.


 

Published October 17, 2020
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.