niobe’s slaughter
yearly, gray mother reblooms like a
peacock
on the day i became for her.
[unlucky though, hubris, in our
petty lives]
felt before seen, a growling, an
underweight firstborn begged from
the sky
conspicuous calm, then later tempest
of coarse doing
kicking at the dainty teeth of
life.
in the days since you rose in the
west, blinding orange sun
now she says in tinned telephone
voice:
girl, have i not cause for pride? but i am begging
don’t be this political, don’t draw them down with
fight
if it’s peace you want from these tidy new bigots.
curses come modern of color and
cunt, skill and loving
killjoy genus, species feminist
walking under the eye of new
jealous gods’ zealots
affronted by the extra-familial –
we have only only the old
dead democracy’s lullabies.
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