Black Poetry : The Pocket Dress (V-Day Submission)

Hunter

Well-Known Member
REGISTERED MEMBER
Apr 3, 2001
645
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THE POCKET DRESS

I was born to keep the score and to use my fingernails to scratch my middle
name on the inner walls of my mother's invisible vagina. My mother was a
powerful magician and she perfected the uneasy craft of being overweight and
invisible. This mothercraft served her well. It was a family tradition
handed down from her own mother to herself. In time, I too inherited the
treasure chest of unseen generational pains.

I still breathe the mysterious odour, down there at the base of my mother's
invisible vagina. I can still see flesh crawling inside of flesh every time
my mother un-crossed her legs to grease my nappy hair. I was unfit for pony
tails back then so the cornrows carefully ploughed through the repugnance
between her legs. There I was. Somewhere between my mother's legs. Inside
her womb again. My firt memory of home. Waiting, for the changing of the
seasons that would bring her scents to harvest.

During the winter of my father she smelled like bitter grapefruit crushing
sweet pimento with the weight of her pulp. During the brief summer seasons
of her children, she smelled like four peaceful sticks of Wrigley's
bubblegum, the ones with the yellow wrapping paper. Each of us savoured the
flavour.

Unlike my three siblings, I chewed my mother up slowly, measured the width
of her wisdom and the elasticity of life inside her bubble. I have always
been able to discern between stale bubblegum and other temptuous aromas.

when I was younger I would watch her lips move and avoid being hypnotized by
the blank stare in her eyes like the others. My mother's lips would speak
heights to me proudly and tell the tall tales of my infant life. Stories
about how I was such a tiny baby that she carried me around in the oversized
pocket of her sun dress.

This dress. This pocket dress that tells babies they are equal only to
clothes, has long since been my worst enemy. Has branded me cotton forever
more. I am cotton like the others now. Those who came before me. Although
I wear the 'Emperor's New Clothes'.

I use to love reading that story as a child. So mysteriously drawn to the
words and now I understand why. Now that my statistics have all been
recorded and the magic spells and curses have all been accounted for. I
stand before you clothed in my intricately sewn, invisible, purple gown. I
wear the royal colours of this painfully purple robe just like my mother and
her mother did before me.

The world must love me now. Yes, love me. Love the magic of my mystical
scents. Someday soon, I too will spread my legs and bring the harvest.
Then my vagina will speak like the invisible...lips moving....frozen
gaze...staring...and whispering to my inner thighs...generational stories of
bittersweet lives and cornrows ploughing through a difficult winter.


*Vagina Chronicles*

Hunter
All Rights Reserve
 

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