Poetry by Andrena Zawinski
Andrena is from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, lives in Oakland, California and editor of http://www.poetrymagazine.com
Her website is http://www.poetrymagazine.com/zawinski
"We shape clay into a pot,
but it is the emptiness inside
that holds whatever we want."
Tao Te Ching
1. This
(I am six. I am twenty-six.)
I am six.
I am a kid
in a cowgirl suit,
strapping on a holster,
riding my city steed
cherry 3-wheeler,
clomps of mud
clogging its chain.
It has come to this:
I can barely remember
my own parents' faces,
but I can still see
mud on those pedals.
Twenty years later
I am on my back
a woman dressed up
as someone's bed,
blood on the sheets.
I am the bed,
I am the ceiling,
I am the walls,
I am the room.
(This has happened:
My face disappeared
beneath the scarlet
throb of a bruise.)
2. She is not
(this body)
This is the world where only guns and drugs sell more than its whores,
rest and recreation for the global economy, its pedophiles reclined
behind a camoflauge of pc screens, eagerly scanning the rental lists
for a vagina for a mouth for an anus
for for for by by
by the hour by the day by
the month for a lifetime from
from the sexual slavery pimp, finger on the trigger of the cocked crack gun,
lolita posed like a CK ad , catalogued as a child bride ready-made to order,
but she is not this body. This body is not a machine to sew jean seams
sweating over stitches in the flickering light bulb dark for a big buck bang.
This body is not the father's bed, not a boot camp for the patriarchy.
This body is not a half-ripe cherry ready for the picker's claw.
This is not a good job for a poor girl.
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