Skins of Metal

Sedan. Hatchback. 

Pickup Truck.
Types of engines
Skins of metal
Holding it all together
Making it through the masses
some of the time

Otherwise a treacherous day

For the beasts on display

More upheaval

And the humans still

Have the upper cuff

Though not for long

In a world where 

Hands are not required

Where they are a nuisance

These extensions are put 

To the test and to the cramp

Deliberate debilitations

clutching squarish faces

trimmed at all the right corners

Coins are bitten

For the sake of the gold

Teeth crumbling as 

Sirens sell their products

Like flesh too often does

The female sort

Tradable, temporary,

disposable

And the brainwashed swashbucks

upchucking music...go pop

Stale after a couple minutes

Pitching overly refined sugar

with triumphant ooze

To pack the punch

And take control

Pooling, surrounding,

Emulsifying all in one go

Keeping the people pretty

Behind their mirrors

Clenched by harrowing woes

Excruciatingly afraid

To leave their houses

More loathe of being hated

Than of being caged

Mama Didn't Know Best

 

Like they did most afternoons, the two went on a walk—Mama in a dress, pushing Baby in a stroller.

Two months old, babbling in spurts of improvisational monologues.

This was a dreadfully brief leave for maternity.

It was safer at work, but Baby wouldn't be able to stay there with her while she served the public.

Mama dreaded to think what would happen to Baby when she wasn't home to monitor.

She didn't yet know the elongating sucker of the breast pump,

the excruciating pressure,

or the scent of the isolation ward, cold and stale.

But home was its own breed of isolation ward. It was the sheer opposite of sensation.

An antisocial space.

Feigning mindfulness, she told herself that now was now—on this walk, she had full control.

Mama knew that baby sensed her fear when Papa advanced in a rage, looming over her, looming over them.

Despite his lack of enormity.

On the walk, the green and brown stroller was camouflaged. It was safe.

If only the two could camouflage at home, blend into the walls, fade into the furniture...

Mama looked across the valley to the hills where she had once hiked, pink-cheeked with pregnancy and hopeful that things would get better at home.

Baby looked up with his tiny face. 

What was going to happen?

Mama didn't have an answer.

So on they walked. Home.

Sigh Of Time

 

Within a mere sigh of time

Exhilaration laughed 

out loud at lift-off.

We were clouds, falling 

through reflection in the lake sky

Water and trees teased mercilessly 

the upended mounds of earthen bowls

Revealing her thrills, a sly mellow haze 

leaned against us in no gentle manner

Outside was hot, sunny, clairvoyant

Big golden eye burned its way 

across the horizon, 

In search of thirst-quenching blue

And with agonizing tremble, 

our shattered hearts clamored, 

scattering shards across cold marble breath

Within a mere sigh of time

Scorn Fields

Scorn Fields

Why are your hands empty?

After so much reaping, 

you should be full with harvest

Even though the grass is dry

and the feline mouths thorny,

you wait for the replenishment

Wondering how the world

got like this, just like this,

so plain and cruel

They say it’s all about perception

They say many things

and you listen, out of habit

Your hands are tired

but you hold on to the hope

that the wait will be worth it

Believing that a canyon

full of ferns might turn

into a flatland of crops

You remain, incredulous 

and they don’t care

And they never will

So release your air cups

your plates of sand

and crumbling journals

Take to the hills, the lake,

as your exhales dispel

the iniquity of their scorn

Before I Knew Myself

It has been hard to let go. Difficult to process and seemingly impossible to grasp. I was holding on to those caricatures of old. Layers of lifetimes revealing the sluggish evolution of reluctance. 

The figures stood stoic, leaning in too close, backing up, shouting, 

whatever they needed to do to hold tight my attention, 

my concern. 

It became clear that the barn with the sacred window yet lived within me, candles burning in a circle round, and so many people in exquisite colors, goats bleating in the background, blackberries growing sharp and moonlit against a horizon of dusk. 

She was in the meadow. I would someday be her.

Such places were served to me—gifts given as if in apology for the violence of the ownerships, 

avoidance between family, and way too many 

secrets. 

Trying to make up for the discretions shattered and agonies repeated because they were the only way the kindred torrent knew how to 

breathe. 

In: defense. Out: offense. Over and over. Circular and exhausting. 

But when they saw what they had created, it was too late to turn back. 

A tree with infested roots part-way uprooted. 

Could they make up for the displacement with money? With time? With compliments? 

No. 

She ran into the forest green and soon the men trailed behind, standing on the sidelines. 

Waiting hungrily. 

Upon.

 The Velcro lady, ready for the hooks. Dreading those beasts as much as 

she did the fairy on the bomb. 

Dream world begets dream world and just like the merpeoples’ fungi mouths crumble, figures fade into the sand above which our stories sink. Meanwhile, soilent battles holler across the vacant valley. 

Striking down with derision and might. 

Me.

and my

Peach nightgown.

Musical Unfolding of Black History

 Let us pause to have a listen to the musical unfolding of Black History. 

(click on the links for your listening pleasure)

Black History speaks her story through the medium of music. The rhythm, the melody, the vocals, the instrumentation…each aspect carries forth the echoes of triumph and woe, of oppression and revelation. As a musician, I have learned that the musical influence of the African Diaspora has shaped and inspired the very nature of American music. We have so many glorious Black musicians to thank, past, established, and emerging. We can give gratitude with our ears, with our appreciation, and with the way we as parents honor Black writers, artists, and performers in our daily lives so that our children might too savor the beautiful and expressive originality of African and African-American musicality.  

Too Much

I’m not sure when my love faded or when it fell flat on its flimsy face. When I was small, I must have loved her. It seems that children know how to love without analyzing. Her tone was hard with the mockeries she played off as mere amusements. She tried to purchase my devotion with her gifts. Did I resent her? The way she would drive us out of the house with her tirades. The way she would glare. The way she would call mother incessantly until my mother finally picked up the phone. Mother was not permitted to hang up until grandma was done, the blame lingering in the air so that mother cried over the juices of sour guilt, spilled for the sake of appeasing the oppressor. I might have loved grandma’s perfectly styled hair and shapely legs. The way she laugh-cackled. The way she dodged accountability, complained about her pain, told her supposed loved ones that they were never enough. She was too much.

I married my grandma. That’s what my mother says.

I’m not sure when my love faded or when it fell flat on its flimsy face. When I was married to him, I must have loved him. It seems that women in general know how to love despite the situation. His gravelly drone berated beneath the guise of humor. He tried to buy my obedience with gifts. Did I resent him? The way he would drive me out of sleep with his lectures. The way he would go on and on, prodding me incessantly until I finally responded. I wasn’t allowed to stop listening until he was finished. Blame lingered in the air so that I cried over the juices of sour guilt, spilled for the sake of appeasing the oppressor. I must have loved his clever eyes and toned biceps. The way he rhymed. The way he evaded accountability, complained about everyone else’s sins, told his supposed loved ones that they were never enough. He was too much.

Abuse is a switch that can shut off love.

by Jennifer Burnside