/ Poetry /
1996, sleepovers at my grandmother’s house.
My own room, a quilted bedspread.
It was there I discovered the way I like my eggs
(poached) and the way I prefer my tea
(heavy on the milk, heavier on the sugar).
A tea fit for a queen. (I called it Grammy Tea).
I drank out of a hand-painted mug, straight
from the pottery shop, watched movies
on VHS tapes, let my grandmother pull hot
curlers out of my hair, her own little doll.
Begged her to tell me stories,
the truer the better, like the one where she tore
her husband off like a band-aid
when he refused to let her go to work,
one fell swoop—quick but full of burn.
I listened to the way she held the word “wife”
on her tongue like a bitter pill,
like something to spit back out.
She is the one who told me
the fairytale was always fractured, the princess
never needed rescuing (and neither did I).
I never believed that women could bite
until I saw the point of her teeth,
the way she sharpened beauty like a dagger,
wielded grace like a weapon
To this day, I still cannot stomach
a stifled woman, still wear lipstick the color
of blood, still drink my tea
like a goddamn queen.
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