A change in pressure at any point in an enclosed fluid
at rest is transmitted undiminished at all points in the
Suppose I sat in a room, fingers brushed
against cool metal — cuffs or something
as I listened to the detective's questions.
Say I'm asked— how do you learn fear?
Sighs, raises blouse to eye level & whisper
by growing a female body.
My body a living bread—
take it break it
do these things in memory of me.
Last week I was pressed against a wall,
dress pulled down in fast motion, thrust
over & over— an equation P = F/A
Where P is the nail driving its way into wood.
Or perhaps P is the pressure of a piston, two times
the size of the fluid a man plunges into.
Say F is the force applied by the [ ], say my hy—
men breaks & orgasm feels like a hurricane.
Take A to be the total area,
or call it my body
My body, yet a well where men draw strength
again I'm asked—what happened yesterday?
face flush with anger, another officer walks in,
fear creeps in. I – I – I then say;
I cross the road to talk to God
I sit in the front pew of the sanctuary,
footsteps thud from behind, rough calloused
hands gripped me, seized my breath,
& made me suck my bones.
I stabbed him three times,
& sent him to hell. Even God couldn't save him.
Tell me why you took a knife to [ ]?
I smile politely then say;
It's night & a girl can't take a walk
Too often, our cries for help are silent
ones. Unheard. Unheeded— Emily
Believe it or not—
depression is a dice rolling into our lives.
If you've walked through the long night of grief,
you'll meet the ghost that lives in your head. You will
see shadows hiding in your walls, and hear taunting whispers:
"take another capsule and lay rest."
on this road, a boy made his body,
a pendulum, swinging freely from side to side
My therapist walked through this road. She watered
weeds till they grew wild and ate her up. Her therapy couldn't
save her— anymore. Even the therapist needs a therapist. Now,
I'm on the road between dying, and
wanting to sleep— again. Granny said the shadows I see are dying
flowers. I admire the dying ones, whenever she tends her roses.
a withered flower will not wither— again.
Yesterday, a poet walked into the night with pain and pills.
He never came out. I wish I found out if he found peace.
Inside my head is a sad film— movie reels grayscale & fade to black.
Peering at Freud's sadistic theories, my superego
drives my ego to end it. To be an athletic god.
My English language instructor once passed this path. He said:
life is like a semicolon; we can end it. We chose
not too Listen: I decide never to do it—again.
Ever. Won't you celebrate with me, that every day,
something has tried to kill me, and has failed,
and has failed, and will fail?
Lines riffing off Lucille Clifton’s “won’t you celebrate with me” poem from Book of Light. Copyright © 1993.
Suppose our bones are brick walls, weak and ready to crumble.
or call them broken cartilage, waiting to be stitched.
Yesterday, under the withered guava tree where my umbilical cord is buried,
My grandmother spent the night counting the stars,
till the night swallowed her up.
Depression is the rope, woven to hang us, like a portrait.
this thing sits like a stone in a woman's abdomen,
but when the ache becomes too much for the woman to carry,
where does she go?
Isn't home what her body yearns for?
A man who longs for departure, sees water as a means,
wraps his body with verses of melancholy, then
leaves it swaying like a capsizing ship,
till his body finds its way into the banks of the Nile
Depression comes quietly like sun rays,
& peeps through the dark corners of our rooms, scorch our backs, then vanish
But is darkness not synonymous with night?
Is night not meant to keep the body at rest?
Is water not for baptism?
I know this feeling, It lurks around us in creepy places,
then drain us to the last drop.
till water becomes the only corridor to follow
I know all these truths because I've once longed for water before
because dark once meant home,
because pain knows every inch of my body,
because I'm still there now
We have lived ten thousand lifetimes before the first of men tore through the dirt.
some nights he’s a tidal wave & you drownas he scripts his love on your back.& you understand this language
If you've walked through the long night of grief,you'll meet the ghost that lives in your head.
i am the drowned ghosts of refugees, the one minute silences invented by daughters
the music is loud. everything is loud now especially our chests, howling with memories
what began as throbs ends in a bleed. I return to the trail of my blood-