Spencer Williams | Two Poems

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Ode to The Nightmare I Had About True Crime Television

My spoiled teeth suck down brawny intrusions.………Dearest, do
you not remember catching bottles by the mouthful?………Of
waking with gashes maggot-birthing from your howling pink?
In the mornings, I made you eggs shaped like offal.………At work,
I boned with glee.………Do you not recall

the time I wretched a brown so vile the wedding almost killed
herself?……… Your gruesome bacterial bride-to-be splayed out in
the cathedral parking lot, throat rusting like a Sunday bell.
How hungry my hands became later, in your stale company of
slumber.……… I know too the ladies you dreamed of.……… There is
no shame in dotting on those matchstick ones.………Plump lips
smothered in cannibal red.……… Eyes primped like urchins.
Breasts swinging

like two rubber gourds.………On the last leg of our honeymoon, I
broke my pleasure with your chipped and resting nail.……… My
womb indulger.………My idiot bearskin rug.………Dearest, I told
you once.………How best to leak the vitals, to trim the hanging fat.
To know which sections in their bloodfull prime burn best beneath
the rub of salt.……… The softer parts: those which desire the most
ruthless slappings and affections a bitch can muster.

This here be a woman’s work.………Slaughter, an artist’s medium.
A motherhood.……… How maternal it is to feel an organ dripping
from the gaps of my hand, curvatures soft like that of an onion
unpeeled.………To know the flesh by name, by spirit, in the
blackened shut of crusting eyes.……… Dearest, woman knows best
how to dress and undress.………How to care for a most seasoned
head in a pot still warm.………Skin like curtains, hooked and
scarlet

specked.……… Beetroot, pumpkin, cabbage.……… Spine coiled like
a bundle of wires on the

killing floor.………Please.………No squirming.

 

 

 

 

 

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No Dead Thing

At what point do I become woman ………is irrelevant.………Ask
not………what point is woman enough to name boy ………that is
woman……… a dead thing.………Irrelevant.……… Do you follow?
I am speaking for the boy who was dead……… on arrival.………I
am

 

speaking for the woman………who was always.

 

Ask not………in this dress………why I am wearing it……… or
why this voice rejects synchronicity………the body speaks
the voice a puzzle.………Am I expected to give………all that I have
my sleep………my exterior………for a bit of quiet?………Must I wear

 

boy on me……………… to bed?

 

I write this poem and do not……… turn into………the monetary
truth ………of this body.………I am not paid to be here living.
To be here at all.………Tell me………what point is the point
you are trying to make……… with these questions?

These questions……… which kill.

Is the point to point me………towards the wall………dress me as
never ………enough………to be room full of people touching
my woman?………Or……… is the point supposed to be like some
sick tug………at the curtain……… like in the movies—

 

the wizard revealed in disappointment is made of manly flesh.

 

Have you not met the bitch in me?………Has no one here introduced you forced your hand full of seasoned prime rib told you feed? Have your fingers not curled in my teeth? Then what is the point of calling this dinner in having this

conversation……… please

tell me something.……… Where is the point inside this
conversation ………and how do I pinch it soft enough to
make it cum?……… Is this not what you are asking………me………
for?………This pretty pink meat………in my hand?………This silly
proof………of purchase?

 

Do my words taste stale when I say what

 

I am is………woman enough……… to meet………everyone you l
ove?………Do you follow?………I am speaking for the bitch
with lifeblood leaking in her jaw.………The bitch with a streak of
resurrection.………No dead thing………laying waste beneath her
skirt.

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Spencer Williams is a trans poet from Chula Vista, California. She is the author of the chapbook Alien Pink (TAR Chapbook Series, 2017) and has work featured in and forthcoming from Alien Mouth, Fractal, Potluck, and earthwords.

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2018-01-22T11:07:42+00:00