THE MARTYR
THE MARTYR
Southern Girl Sicko
I’m living in Virginia,
the beginning of the south,
the childstar of the confederacy.
I’m putting worms and swampwater into buckets
and dumping them on the heads of
northern boys who know mud as well as they know space.
I’ve mowed the king down with my horse,
his legs are morbid and twisted like L-shaped pipes
as he moans in the dark while I hop off the saddle.
My feet are bare and covered in gravel,
my dress is falling off my shoulders,
exposing a breast as I kick the ruler,
nothing but a man when his crown falls down the ravine.
He weeps harder as I remove my
spear from its sheath.
I step on his chest,
hundreds of pebbles covered in my dead skin,
scratching him through his shirt.
I hold the spear above my head
as if I am splitting a log.
I yell at the man I toppled over,
“Thus always to tyrants.”
Drooping,
Wilting
It all ran down my face—
the cuts were vertical and
the drops of my embarrassed eyes
wetting themselves
hit the pavement heels first.
It stressed me out to not know
what I would become but knowing
I would transform and feel the searing pain
of new roots bursting out of my back,
having new blood that
came to be by swirling around my brain.
I was a girl turning on my axis
with a disturbance
from my revolution
that rivaled the smooth engineering
of Earth’s legs.
I was becoming a girl
who would feel ill forever—
the type of girl who
could only wipe at the throb
when it wept,
paint it in thick white cream when it
began to turn red
until I lost control and
clawed at my burning surface
until I broke the seal.
With the scrape of my bulldozing nails,
I began to feel something eternal.