Tag Archives: internet

Pearl 

I wish I did not write about love. 

I wish I had not let them brand me. 

If I am on the market 

How will people know if this subject 

is the only way I’m in print?
I wish I did not write about nature

Specifically how it makes my ovaries blossom. 

If I am only fertile these few more years

All ready engraved in pollen 

How will anything other than sticky stamen penetrate? 
I wish I did not write about Venus. 

She gives away my distance, timing and rotation. 

If I am not pulled by internet routers 

Rather

Turned out from churning oceans

Pearl soaked

How will I find connection? 
I wish I did not write about you. 

You 

who have folded language over in the mouth so it

Curses in hisses of spit and sputum. 

If I am to share saliva again

How can I turn my tongue over? 
I wish I had not written.

Pen and paper has given me away. 

Perhaps though in ink 

You could endorse this woman’s indentations. 

I am simply blotched 

Stamped 

Bleeding about the page like the rest of you. 
Press me to your adjoining pages 

I will etch in so you read me well. 

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Forgetting in an age of swipe left, un-follow and delete.

‘I cannot resolve why it is that men go and women stay’.

 

Of late, I have romanticised the days where a man leaving meant he hunted- tended with the time needed, to those parts of himself only satisfied by wilderness and the kill.

When women stayed to tend to their communities, to feed, nourish and converse.

I do this because, nowadays one cannot truly leave nor truly forget.

If I wanted to find or be found, I can access any number of platforms like Google, Instagram, Facebook, text or email.

And if I wanted to force forgetting there is Internet porn, tinder, grinder, …’unfollow’, swipe left and delete.

I long to be properly missed and to equally go missing; as much as I long to miss my men in a way that the only images retained are the ones we made. Images that I invite back or that come to haunt me when I am open enough to our poetry.

But I am not standing on a shore line under parasol waiting for a sailor to return.  I am not boot-footed in the dust kissing my cowboy before he rides off to chase cattle across the plains. And I am not a daughter with as many friends who share the experience and understanding that – fathers go to work for long periods of time.

I am a millennial sitting at a desk in a new home… And I have turned my phone and my computer off so I cannot see where they are going without me.

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