we are decked head to toe
in our ancestor’s feathers,
striped with the arteries of
another insurrection,
bathed in the burst scabs of
obstinate knuckles seasoned by
the day, the sweat of far
too many suns without
shade.

chasing for scalps, we are
taut-backed, hold our curves
like jello axes,
spit with charcoal lips,
bright eyes,
hearts like meandering cannons.
our chipped nails hold prayer, tongues,
the clipped wings of our grandmothers.
we are here.

we are clawing at your porch,
oiling the glass
sneaking up your banister,
teeth out
sliding under sheets,
look
     slither
i’ve got an apple for you to bite.
breath like gentle reminders from God
          now, now, learn to be amenable
feel the uneven pulse that vengeance wore.
we are pausing so you understand the difference in
revival and survived,
glint from the knife reveals an untamed eyelash:
unpainted and short and straight
with might.
we are partially cloaked but baring
light smiles,
wayward breasts you can’t touch,
wild right,
a heat between our thighs that you can’t
hunt, and it’s close enough to
smell.
we are wearing the masks of
unlectured howls,
thorns plucked from our ribs,
a blood crusted march,
a cold new vendetta.

we,
my sons,
are coming to get you.

“the matriarch”

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