poetry by sara martin
I’ve been waiting for warmth again
trying to conceal that I am a pile of dirty dishes
shaped in curves
and pretzel knotted curls
and knowing that you are indigenous,
even if the others don’t think so
that’s what calms me
If I had a spear, if I plunged myself through a flagpole, it would all spill out. It would happen slowly, like honey. You are a little fucking ball of love, she says.
I think about the love inside me. If the love inside me has divided into little men and women working who all reside in different parts. If they walk around, bow-legged, and cramped over so their backs have become dinner tables. I think about if they curse at me, hate me, if they want a break. Maybe they want to get a good rest in before they have to work again. But there is no rest, they are always working, and it makes me want to cry.
I think about the love inside me. If it has died, like it should have by now, I could watch it roll out like a black glob onto my sneakers. People would stare, point, ask how an oil spill could come from a little girl's body, but no one would be sure because I wouldn’t be breathing. The love inside me is not yellow, like it used to be.
You are a little fucking ball of love, she says.
I look deep in the shower, and hold the black I feel behind my belly button. I hold the slime in my intestines, and I think that’s the reason why my stomach hurts so bad this year.