This is just gonna be a collection of poems of mine that I really like!!
“Her Yellow Gloves”
Her Yellow Gloves
All over America women are washing dishes.
It’s scrubbing and rubbing; it’s Dawn soap
On subdued yellow gloves; it’s cracks in plates;
broken glass in the sink; it’s blood and bruises
and never knowing what’s to come.
All over America women are washing
dishes that they’re supposed to save for when
He wants people over.
Blues and purples splinter across her arm,
shaped by strong hands that once held her close,
hidden by the sleeves on her dress,
flared at the waist and the color of His eyes.
It’s broken vases and bleeding noses.
It’s his knuckles, bloody and bruised
and her eyes, black and busted.
All over America, women are washing dishes,
their fingers pruning with the constant submersion
like a housewife under the pressure of perfectionism.
If she wants to wash anything, it’s
the feeling of her husband off her skin.
If she wants to dry anything, it’s
the tears on her cheek when he leaves again
for a hussy.
Her life is rung out and dried,
nothing but debris at the bottom of the overused sponge.
Look, she says, once I was fine porcelain
saved for special occasions and treasured beyond measure
but now I am Tupperware.
I am overworked and underappreciated.
Washing is not a choice, but a necessity.
“What Does She Look Like?”
She stares blankly at me as I assess her.
There is a white glow behind her.
She resembles an angel.
Parted down the middle, the shiny, black smudge atop her head
Glistens with the thoughts she hides behind her cold,
ash colored eyes.
She resembles Hades.
Her eyelashes are short, visible, and powerful.
Without blinking, she bats away all competitors.
She challenges me.
She stares at me with clean contempt.
Her eyebrows arch oddly, the proportions off
But still beautifully assymetrical. Her nose runs down
her face in a short, bulbous fashion.
She resembles her mother.
Her high cheekbones, swaddled in skin of blacks, whites, and browns,
fade away from her nostrils is a smooth
Almost flawless motion.
Her lips are small, but not pursed.
They are as blank as her stare.
She resembles her father.
Her face goes downwards into a soft roll,
The sides gently curving into the formation of a chin.
Her hair reaches down her back, cascading in long spirals.
Her neck is partially covered by her hair.
The part that does show is smooth,
Kinda like marble,
And it resembles the complexion of her people.
The Collar.
It’s a folded collar, like the one I wore in
Elementary School.
The shirt itself is a mirage of greys, each one slightly different.
She stares blankly at me as I assess her.
She is suspended in space,
Frozen in time, sentenced to never
Speak a word again.
Yet, she seems to speak to me,
As clear as black and white.
“My Head”
1, 2.
Blink Blink.
I wake up and count my breaths.
1,2.
1,2.
Good.
Blink Blink.
Okay.
Get dressed.
Okay.
Shirt.
No no no.
Pants before shirt.
I start over.
Pants.
Shirt.
Good.
Vest.
Coat.
Pocketwatch?
I’ve got it.
I get my gloves.
1,2.
Perfect.
Okay.
Time to leave.
What time is it?
4:15
Oh my god.
I’m late. I’m late.
I run. Right then
Left. Right
Then left.
The queen’s gonna
Have my head.
My head.
Have my head.
She’ll kill me.
Mary Ann.
Who will take
Care of Mary Ann?
Wow, I see the changes that you have made in your poems. The revisions are fantastic, and I love what you have done. It was nice to see some new pieces too.
i LOVE your poetry 🥺