from Carrying None But Cries
Strawberries supple, teeth of tart seeds. My first memory of any summer is this, holding rough sand in both hands and playing touch-me-not with salted foam between toes. Big man, curly man a shade darker than my own, holding sand filled socks like a baby between both arms. I’m free, running and my heartbeat knows the price of this dance - I will know the taste of young tongues, interlocked and tasting wet metal, hiding behind soft chairs. I’m begging big man to save me, hide me because I came from him, he must owe me that much. I wake from an afternoon nap and look for her, the lady who is definitely a part of me, everyone says I look like her old mother, I must come from her? In my dream I saw locked doors filled with a thousand mirrors and there was no way out, I cry to her. Save me, hold me and put me under your breasts because I have none, I don’t want to grow them because I see hands in my nightmares. Big man snores between walls and I hope for a ruined death and gender separation, from me / for. I hope for tears and a finished scream on my grave. I’m 5 years old and I know the taste of spit, foreign to my little body.
The terrible is folding. I’m lying on my couch as an adult and the spit in my mouth is just mine, this once. The sweat is due to 73 degrees of comfort and no pants. I rub my legs on fake leather because cruelty, an encore of fake in all my printed words because animals didn’t ask to die so we could spread our legs. I have a boyfriend this summer and I touch his tongue with mine, he doesn’t know the hidden imprints of young hands on most parts of my body. I breathe almost twice as loud as normal after a.m and my lungs develop orange love / crave every dark night. My adult hands are cautious and slip between another person’s hands if I brush mine with too much CVS moisturizer, always blues on white, always a giant pump bottle. I spit. A scream that’s never heard is still loud in your head. I spit. I spit over the shower curtain. Big face/s are now figments, they resemble my skin and color in darker, there are no old mothers when they died young. I spit and wipe it with mild vaginal wash, pinks establishing gender market, every mouth sighs. Gentle, but there’s nothing gentle about little graves without bodies. My tears fit into the palms of my hands, graves and I cry for the breastless me, separated by same gender, in me, a light cowardice.
Nooks Krannie is a Palestinian/Persian female writer from Montreal, Canada. Her most recent poetry chapbook is "candied pussy" published by Thistlemilk Press. She tumbls at http://nkrannie.tumblr.com/ and instagrams @nookskrannie.