by Maya Sistruck
Twang in his voice snaps like a guitar string
with delicate words that say everything
Carolina blue and swollen earth beneath my feet and
if I were to be buried here, how many
would I join?
How many Black bodies have fed the soil I walk on?
Souls and voices burn in my blood
and when I join them, will the grass breathe again?
Will he hear my song in the green glass chimes,
my laugh in the chalk lines adorning a childhood cul-de-sac,
my sorrow in the cotton-blossoms,
so soft I almost miss the thorn when it
splits my finger (?)
Will he understand how I kiss away my own wounds?
Or is it the gentle,
Southern musicality that deafens him to my plight
and turns my desire for him into
a desire for night.