B led


My mother taught me that men were afraid of women becau
se we could bleed. Scintillating, an army of fish-shaped wou
nds heads into battlefield. Straw grasses, tinged like wine. A
nd sighs in stead of screams. Rinsing my cotton underwear,
how many times have I thought, so tied to a tradition, Ou
t damn spot? Sin lives in our cognition like chlorophyll lives
in leaves. My first lover didn’t mind, but I didn’t want to b
e touched. Letting blood, my high school teacher with the
child porno nip-slip on his projector screen, helped the Az
tecs feel at ease. How can you trust what is not willing to fe
el? And I played a game of religion or trust in my own body,
cutting more wounds than I could count, refusing to be just.
High femininity, or giving, or must. Vulnerable bequeath. I
wanted to walk that common dark path. I wanted to feel, eve
n in the dark air, dark unseen reason, more of a good breeze.

Tola Sylvan