Midnight to 3 A.M.
by TIANA CLARK
at my husband snoring
and think of mulatto house slaves,
not all of them, just the ones
that might have looked like me
and were petrified, like me, to touch
themselves, down there, down where
it’s burnt and swollen to worship
that weak part of me that’s cream,
to hunger the part of me that’s white
matter, separated—the forgotten
phonics of blood, thickening
the room with red
platelets. I close his mouth.
I clap my hands. I turn him over
and start myself.