My clove,
Smoke out of my lips,
Smells like Christmas, like my mom,
Like a tough-shit bad-ass motherfucker version
Of me,
Like being defiant
Like being too proud
Standing, not lying, erected
Out of my mouth:
My favorite appendage
Wiggle as I speak,
Little black worm,
Feisty, fiery beetle,
Shake your finger in protest,
In pretension;
Who do they think you are?
You’re not some camel, some cowboy
You’re inside of me, outside of me,
On fire, my fire,
My clove.
CARRIE-LYNNE DAVIS COPYRIGHT 2008
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