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Thursday, March 09, 2017

Legions at my heel.

Center of the World:

The meek inherit nothing.
God in his tattered coat
this morning, a quiet tongue
 
in my ear, begging for alms,
cold hands reaching up my skirt.
Little lamb, paupered flock,
 
bless my black tea with tears.
I have shorn your golden
fleece, worn vast spools
 
of white lace, glittering jacquard,
gilded fig leaves, jeweled dust
on my skin. Cornsilk hair
 
in my hems. I have milked
the stout beast of what you call America;
and wear your men across my chest
 
like furs.

Safiya Sinclair.

ntodd

March 9, 2017 | Permalink

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