Waiting for Prince

after-rain prism puddles to pull Prince
from, and my girlfriend used to call me
worthless. this bruja, i know!
this word-
smith who punched out teeth to make
keys, who burned vagina
to keyholes

in front of my house is something distinct,
but i don’t remember it. houses are
built onto conveyor belts built into my amygdala,
red flashes of rage and there’s a new front door
1295, 123, 5, 57, 104-70, 102, 58

flip them, and i’ll tell you my fortune (in bed)
“good things come to those who wait”
“forget who you were, embrace who you will become”
“Love”,

i made a misstep, and dropped the white slip
from my hands, softened by the baby blue
words that are actually clouds our minds fix
into something safer to look at, no one wants rain
in the time of witches
, words are spells
that break bones, soften stool before its time,
turns Princes to frogs, gives you something to hope
for

i used to be decrepit, used to need a cane
(the sugar one white people know little about)
to suck on so my legs wouldn’t wobble and i’d
be left to fall onto the tar terrible truth
that a relationship with mother is a lie,
is green, is soft baby blue under the harsh yellow
light of truth: truth is

i am a lesbian woman who once wore
a conservative Christian as a necklace
and sweater, necklace last. see, even then
i would have died by the pussy!

i wore her, sucked her, grew as her biggest shame
i am Lying Leech Lesbian in an orange cape
my father made for me, whose father made for him,
whose father made for him, whose master raped
into his grandmother’s skin.

i once fell asleep lost in count of sugar
groups, into DNA, into trauma
and woke up thirsty and diabetic. it was 3am
and raining, and the last thing i remembered
was me and attempts to spell myself,
“i am a gift, i am a gift, i am a gift”

where’s
Prince?

-Stephanie Ambroise

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About terpsichorean

Stephanie Ambroise is a nomadic writer, a rolling stone, collecting moss from all over to add to the beautiful tapestry of art that is her soul. Her poetry is a collection of all of the places she's been and all of the places she dreams to go. Finally summoning up the courage to tell her story, and being met with positive remarks and encourage, she's ready to shine and let her story stand right next to her, instead of hiding behind her.
This entry was posted in absence, affirmation, black art, black lives matter, diary, feature, goddess, poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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