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Teresa White |
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Slave Market Nothing makes sense. The chains that hurt my ankles have been removed. I walk out into the cigar-mouth courtyard so you can watch my high step. The sockets of my arms ache, the rope's teeth chew my wrists. I wish it didn't have to be like this. I wish I had a square of muslin to hold between my legs. My head is bent forward but I can't bend far enough to cover my poking breasts. You spit and chew and look. My teeth? The fat end of a cane opens my mouth. Tap. tap. I am relieved when I can turn around. I wish my hair had grown down past my hips. I know things will get better and all the rumors I hear are lies. I want a real bed. I want to sing. I promise I won't ever leave you. Buried Alive I no longer hear the thumping dirt upon this box, barely big enough to move my toes. Wood presses in on all sides--an affectionate lover whose affection knows no end but the end of me. Should I breathe or not? I know what conservation means. Too late, the breath or kiss of speech to save me now. I have faith in your abiding love, the little kindnesses, the hope I hold between my teeth: a periscope, this straw. Before my brain implodes dare I call out, much less scream? And who would hear me, you? No. I doubt that you are standing there above me now. You've done your deed. Of course the grass might hear if it wasn't singing--oblivious to worms and women sleeping underground. |