“A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word to paper.”
I have two midterms on Thursday. I locked myself in my room. I was determined to study. I wrote a poem instead. I'm not ready for my tests on Thursday. Anyways, here is part of the poem I wrote:
i am far older than you. my face
a worn map, my breasts a heaving
reminder. you ask me why i have never
do you know now why i took you under
my skirt? i am a small planet with no moons.
i weep. i wanted better for you, but africa
has always been on fire— the women
flameswallowers. ashes in the heels of their boots.