I could not tell

If the desire to be known

Was a good desire.

A desire held firm, in the natural.

In the facts and the timetables, i had failed in.

Or, whether the very contemplations of these questions were rationalisations

For my body, being grounded in the infirm.

Because the impostor can never recognize herself.

The mirror splits in two, or three, or fourteen

The tributaries forbid any attachment.
And, is born the writer who writes for herself.

Herself, channeling her ancestors who poured their jugs of sweat onto their typewriters, to rid them of the, or their, subconscious. To rid them from questions of photojournalists, and blog writers, who inquired, that

As a woman, as a lesbian, as a welfare recipient, a public housing adherent, how does it…

And by this point the rest of the question turns into a froth of inconsequentials, required for column inches.

You must write. You must do politics. You must love police precincts in firestorms. And you must write it in 0s and 1s; write about programming, fingers treating garments, toddlers drooling into bibs, witches being burnt at the empty rice bowl, the quarters of divestment, the suburbs of flight, the immolated without literacy, pangs out reaching for press-conferences, and love without the blackmail tugging viscous at expression,  at friends-nights-out. at bare shoulder. at drag. at stroke. at throe, at grandma cradling grandson, like overpass sleeping bags clench their fists for cash, or how my pillow was the scene of my first time. when i learned about the euphemism. not when he can spread his legs in the cage,

and so, what are the joys of married life?


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