Quasi: a revision

I don’t spit polish

your buttocks,

rosy.

That’s a real problem

for you,

innit?

 

I don’t sing your hymns,

or shine lights

golden

upon your common

backside.

 

I don’t heel cos

I’m no bitch,

stricken.

No, bitch. I’m Alpha—

teeth stained brave.

 

And I don’t heed bull—

shit, girlfriend,

you blind

batty.

That’s a real problem

for a quasi

like you.

Sister

Burgundy-Wine-Color-Watercolor-photo-backdrop-Vinyl-cloth-Computer-print-wall-Photography-Backgrounds.jpg_640x640.jpg

Sister hides

behind

brunette mantle

dyed

burgundy,

and I wonder

whether

obscured amber orbs

jammed inside her eye

sockets

are human,

or glass

beads that once belonged

to her favorite baby

doll.

 

Sister says,

I’m cursed like Mother,

and I wonder

whether

she owns vocal

cords,

or plastic mama

box

manufactured

in Japan.

 

If I shake her,

will she speak

faster?

 

Awful

lot of questions

Sister

can’t

answer

unprovoked.

 

© Kindra M. Austin

The Air I Breathe

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Tears go by as years expand from Heaven to horizon;

and I scale the mountain ranges risen in

consequence of your death.

Jesus, or some other guardian breathes for me

whilst my lungs delight in respite from high altitudes.

 

***

 

In this,

the winter of my youth,

stillness

settles deep into bone,

and I am reconciled.

 

As I prepare for sleep ‘neath a blanket of white,

you visit upon me memories,

and I am happy here

at the summit of my youth;

for I will awaken in the dawn of golden age.

 

***

 

Tears go by as years expand from Heaven to horizon;

and I’ve dominated mountain ranges

risen in the pit of me—

all of them consequences of your death.

It was you who lent me breath.

 

© Kindra M. Austin