On Glorification

by Siaara Freeman

 

the sky is a dazzlingly selfish pair of child shoes. shined. with gum at the bottom.
the hood is a bubble of veil bites and coiled jewels. grief and money runs this whole
world. this whole world is a greasy wail. it stains whatever it touches. it's always touching
me. i am not sure if my love is not hate that has found a greater purpose. 

my love is a belligerent grunt in the great kaput. a biting flag. an understood betrayal still
trying to explain itself. here is a seat in my brain, its covered in glow worms. do worms
make you cry? or curious? or cruel enough to cut them in half and see if they can wiggle
back together. that's how i imagine my synapses, how i view my brain----

this: 
quivering slice of cranberry sauce on a very cheap, very loved plate. a soothing suck
of activity. sounds like a conversation that became an argument. and everyone is right
until they are wrong. so when people ask me how I can love a hood that took
my father? Wicked fairy that I am, I read them

this poem.