Midnight to 3 A.M.

by TIANA CLARK

 

 

I glare

 

            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

 

to stop

and start myself.