To My Daughter

We men never stop for women we are always on the move going somewhere else:           on to our next conquest,           a tighter squeeze,           a new adventure— Our heads staring at the noon sun like the breasts of a virgin at fifteen.

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Image by Layers from Pixabay

We men never stop for women
we are always on the move going somewhere else:
          on to our next conquest,
          a tighter squeeze,
          a new adventure—
Our heads staring at the noon sun
like the breasts of a virgin at fifteen.

Photo by Dellon Thomas: https://www.pexels.com/photo/women-s-gray-racerback-top-713527/

One day you are a raw egg in the palms of our hands,
The other day we squeeze
          Just a little
Until your shell cracks,
          Just a little
Until your juices run,
          Just a little
Until they stain our shoes,
          Just a little
But you are a shell now—
Shattered. Forever.

Photo by Nathasha Daher: https://www.pexels.com/photo/woman-leaning-on-window-2860381/

Your body that was once bubbling with life
is beyond.
You watch, crying through the lock
Round the clock
we men walk away
Jacket tails slapping over our ass(holes)
Go somewhere else
To carry another egg.

Deaths of Right (Part II)

Take care of my children. His voice never left me. There were nights that I dreamed in such vivid detail that when I woke, I was confused, forgetting, for a fraction of a second, that I was in my bed. For the minutes that followed, the grief washed over me for the loss of a friend who had had my back, the uselessness of my life fighting for the imperialism of a country that didn’t care for me. Part of me wondered if the dreams would change, if one day they would be the same monochrome shadows of before Somalia.

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