I want to rediscover my favorite meal and lap the forty-something woman in a multicolored
windbreaker at the track; I want to re-rescue my pet, this time with less tears; I want to mitigate
the earth’s core before it shatters and thanks me for a wild ride; I want to hide in the cupboard
instead of the basement; I want him to find me waiting instead of kneeling; I want to be forgiven
for sins before I commit them, like a comic strip reveals its ending and expects your eyes not to
wander; I want to obliterate borders and build mossy hedges in their place; I want to keep gaze
with my mother until we placate and reconcile over something else from my childhood; I want to
see snowflakes as delicate shapes of ice and not atomic torpedoes blitzing to ravage the kinks in
my hair; I could do without the joblessness; without the spitting image of my father reflecting in
the piece of plastic I use as a mirror; without desert shrapnel making its way into my door-less
apartment; without the methed’up homeless men fondling my breasts while I try to sleep; I want
what you promised back when the ocean dried and you said that’d be the last bad thing; I want to
forget how to pray so that words seem less like blowing into fire and more like dancing; and, I
could use less poetry to temper the unexpected.
Cymelle Leah Edwards is an African-American emerging poet in Phoenix, Arizona. She was recently accepted to pursue her MFA in Creative Writing at Northern Arizona University. Her work has also appeared in Elm Leaves Journal, The Cerurove and Gaillardia, with work forthcoming in Nightingale and Sparrow.
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