radical beauty

her lips dry like peach slices
as sunlight deepens the complexity
of her skin. she strides in
crowded meat markets and in between
street vendors while laughing with
a belly as sound as the atlantic and
the earth awakens from its
media-drugged slumber because
its gravity can’t hold her down.
she caresses the imprints of
change on her body that no one knew
how to love, and her calloused hands
devoted themselves to loving her;
after fucking popular beauty
she was still happy not being one.

the warrior

looking behind a stained glass window
i sigh. the multitude of realities image
a woman with a spine as strong as tree trunks
and with arms that could embrace the world. i
remember when she squeezed the world too hard
and the oceans poured from her hands and
unprecedented lands cracked between her
fingers. she never touched the world again.
instead she built her shoulders like mountains and
drew illogical symbols of time with fingertips
stained red from the decline of the world
she once held. she looks at her feet and notices that
they’ve become as defying as jellyfish–
i watch as she spins and spins and spins and
screams with a release, a smile, on her face.
we claim the world.