THIS WOMAN
A POEM
BY
ALISIA HARRIS
A
SEQUEL TO
THAT GIRL
This is an elegy to all the things that we become before we're done becoming women
One,
Elegy to the freshman girlfriend whose optimism
was buttermilk at the breakfast table turned sour by a boy
for whom my face wasn't pretty in the way he preferred
Baked my body into buffet,
a pie he could cut open and sample
Take a slice of what he liked
Eyes like flies,
all the maggoted compliments I swallowed
because somewhere this must be a delicacy
And somewhere I must be really lucky
Though not Christian enough to pray for
Not even trophy enough to pay for
I spent half of college trying to get this boy to love me
Wrote dozens of poems
Well "that girl" shes been dead for years nowShe's been dead for years now but yall keep asking me to conjure up a ghost
Two,
Ode to the slut who doesn't f*ck
but still a slut for not letting him hit
Remember
there are always two ways of looking at a condom in a wrapper,
open your p*ssy and you won't find freedom
Close your legs and you won't find purity
Purity is just contraception
Freedom is knowing your hip is a hinge,
use your body at your own discretion and seek your own pleasure
What lies between your thighs is a man's Genesis
so how dare he spit upon scripture
To all the girls who've been propped open, pried open, and jada posed
I'm sorry there was no funeral for the going out of your smile
and the coming in of strangers
Hoes, boppers, and skanks
What's in a name but a whole lot of rape culture
What's a slut anyway, but a pimp in sheep's clothing
Three
Ode to the bitch who's not a bitch,
just doesn't always feel like shaking hands after the show
I tried taming the Leo
Cut all of my hair off to get rid of my ego
but still it comes roaring in like a red dragon
She be my protection, a pitbull in a skirt,
please I'm a bull massive on the scent of a kill
I'm still learning how to heal
Four,
Ode to the surgeon
To the knife we wield deathly in our right hand
And to the sutras we made of our own mouths
Where nothing else could close the wounds
My first love, I had to cut him out first at 19
and then again at 21 and then again at 22
The field doc like a field doctor without supplies
on the battlefield, I had to improvise
I marched through my own heart, arms with nothing but a bible, my knees and came out the other side
My hands were killers but my shirt clean, my Coach white
Sometimes love is surgery but it is always a sacrifice
Five,
Ode to the martyr also the mother,
who were once daughters of God and therefore saints
How many times, girls,
how many times have we tried to save someone with our love
Been bread, butter, and breath
Done done our best to give birth and give good head
I mean wisdom, knowledge
Six,
Ode to the impossible
I'm still a red head in my heart
Believe that I am prettier than 8 out of 10 girls in the room
I've traveled to 20 or more countries
and love what I do
but still wake up every morning wondering if I'm doing enough
Sometimes I am tired
Tired
More tired than a bag of old diamonds
All these words and no answers
But everyday I ask myself if today were the last today,
would I be okay with the life I've lived
and then I forgive myself till theres no more sand left in Egypt
I remember the mountains in my last name
and the victory in the middle
Say it over and over as a reminder,
Alysia Nicole, the unforgotten victory,
the victory of the truth
It took me 7 years to go from
that girl to this woman
7 years
but ain't God good and ain't I great
No comments:
Post a Comment