Another poem whose narrator eludes me, but whose voice called to me to speak for her.
Dawn marched her corduroy britches into view,
dampening my camera lens just as I snapped a shot of black smoke
serpentine and languishing,
bastardizing the blues.
Dawn shoved carrot sticks into my mouth,
glued incendiary compromises across my shoulders,
ironing on a corset made of loathing and scars.
She marked my face with a green felt pen,
she nicked my neck with a thumbtack,
folding up limb after limb of my reborn skill sets,
all bruise and no brain.
Dawn pushed me into the city streets,
I hugged the pavement under the lamps
and waited for the silence preceding the implosion,
where my name would no longer be my own
and my skin color a dead-end clue.
Dawn pressed to the left and my body moved,
she pressed to the right and my body moved,
ever deeper into the revelers and people-watchers,
the coffee drinkers and portrait makers.
She pushed me deeper into the middle
until I could see only tweed and denim,
and then the silence came.
Au Champs-Elysees, my final resting place,
a full circle now as ever before.
— yiqi 17 november 2015 8:09 am