poetry

I Have Lightning On My Tongue, It Sends Shivers Through My Teeth. {poetry}

There’s a sliver of gold in my spine.

It stiffens once it slithers into place —

fixated on insecure, troubled vertebrae.

Each slumped,

curved,

timid bone,

straightens.

No room for hunched-back dreamers mumbling to the sewers,

seeking affirmation from shadows in trampled-upon gutters;

gathering trash from feet kicked by malcontent beasts.

Words weren’t meant to be spoken to cracks on the street.

 

There is sun in my blood and it scorches my veins.

It makes my heart tremor in a violent rage.

I possess the sun’s power — it’s not meant to be stifled,

or snuffed out in a tray of ash and saliva.

It whispers in my ears and they listen with patience,

as it tells me each step I make leaves traces of greatness.

No footprint is left when it’s set in hesitation.

 

A cliff resides behind my eyes,

overlooking an ocean where predators dive.

It is the peak in my mind where reticence withers,

where jumping is easy when I know I’ll grow wings.

Falling is simple when the water that catches is calm and receptive,

instead of spoiled with venom, and clings with possession.

There is no cliff if it crumbles from the weight of restrained words, and withheld dreams.

 

It is the moon that causes my fingers to tremble when I dig my toes in sand;

Standing on the shore of the army it leads,

harnessing its footfalls crashing down at my feet.

Flesh ripples along the slopes of muscle and bone,

directing the moon’s battalions where they should go.

My palms open up and the tissue, it quakes, when

the throbbing persistently peels me open,

and I see the moon’s subjects kneel as I wake.

In the darkest of nights, there is light unseen,

but my eyes are blinded by that which shines within me.

 

Badlands

Carve

My

Bones;

Volcanic rock piled up in one sack of skin,

forming a human writhing out from within.

There is dirt in my mouth, and it spills down my chin,

my neck,

and settles above my ribs.

My heart feeds it.

I have earth in my gut.

Trees twist their trunks and branches around my pelvis, and up my spleen.

Roots rip open the soles of my feet.

I walk with soil underneath,

tall grass grows in the path I weave.

 

I am taller than I was when I went to sleep.

 

There is not one part of this universe that does not reside within me.

 

I am most certainly woman.

I’m a fucking King.

***

FlannerySpring-Robinson-300x296Flannery Spring-Robinson currently resides in Brooklyn, NY. She is the executive chef and partner of a cafe in Crown Heights. In her spare hours, she explores, escapes, creates, and spends hours with those who lead life styles different from hers’. She is a drifter with forgiving roots — experimenting cohabitation with the hidden and the sun-stained. Occasionally she visits the Russian Baths on the LES, but has yet to try the oak leaves.

***

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