kireji*: sometimes used as a cutting tool

index finger glides
over large desk, cool to touch
city lake in view

sweet sources soured
numbers jump, fill pocket lines
smiles spot the air

body, slow submerged
embraced well in waters, clear
floats on matter, light

rushing beige column
a spigot regurgitates
splish splash, patted hands

moistened mother’s lids
daughter, barked from water source
lips roughened in fear

pearl drops down hair strands
red scalp rawed, frantic rubbing
neglect scratched on skin

two-hour thumb stuffed ears
baby suckles cracked nipples
beneath a lolled head

whitened, clammy skin
daughter’s hand touch racing chills
largening chocolate stain

steady silence hangs
time-barred child’s sudden screams
fall o’er boiling pot

lead water sits on
politician’s twitching tongue
bulged blue with despair

body, slow submerged,
embraced well in grounds dug deep,
sink in matter, dark

heads bob, dot the sky
numbers jump, fill sidewalk lines
air studded with teeth

city lake in view
beyond large desk, cool to touch,
condemnation hides

*kireji is a part of a haiku that cuts two fragments. Flint is a fragment of minerals that was used as a cutting tool. This is a haiku of haikus. 3 stanzas/7 stanza/3 stanzas.

Advertisements

even when i didn’t ask, they did it for me

What do we do after we march?”

rub rubble from their eyes, (that’s
actually skin, bombed-blasted empty to seek
salvation beneath 6-year old lids.

actually, a thinly cracked, reddened goodbye
from a mother’s splintered throat,

actually the blackening power of a knuckle
to temple, in temple, tempted to sin by bared skin

actually, hope, chipped off by the slammed
cover of Pandora’s box)

how did humans access
what she never dared let escape?

Hope was an undocumented entity
caught in a box pumped with anti-psychotics,
satiated to stillness by the rhythm of their own tears

hope was not what crawled
out from the base of my spine,
my feet scraped across the veiled-
with-forgetfulness karmic time-warp
begotten by the multifaceted figure
of genocide. lungs raw, i know i’ve
been here before, before i died a man,
arrow to the left lung, before i died a woman,
brown Mary ravaged to rubble to lend passage to
lighter-skinned generations and migrants,
before i died as a boy

who got English crammed into his teeth
until his gums bled and he was called
diseased.

I am
“woke”, eyes bloodshot and
begs to the sky for mercy (where
are the children?) in the same
tissue-shattering language, i call
for freedom with sounds pregnant
with century long justifications
for murder, gums fully bled.

Still, the crowd behind me echoes.
Still, there are chants and repeats.
Still, they see me not dis-eased.

-Stevie Ambroise

 

Crossing

i arose at five, peeled
a banana and hung it above your
raising lids

you got your first menses when
the moon was waning       it was
critical to rerun
your growth as the moon
carved itself away
into a fingernail

like the one you used last night
to dig deep the layers of your left arm
and excavate your father’s remains
       last night, when shed blood meant triumph

i wanted to show you when blood really meant triumph,
how both your mother’s and your father’s inside you
mean triumph because
       you are so magnificently beautiful

beneath the glow of this peeled waning moon
beneath the shift and slide of uterus walls
beneath slit abdomen and abnormal men

my too tightly pressed coal,
my thunder struck sand,
my moving breath, foreign to warmth

my thousand reflections of me

the sun does not have to rise just yet,
we’re going to harness this darkness
for 14 more minutes we’ll savor

our womanhood, when we once bore it
like a bad smell,       (i started crossing
my legs at 4
) our insides,

once Gehenna and Paradise; how it hurt
to burn and bare and bear humanity.

(i started crossing my legs at 4,
crossing the self in prayer,
crossing the self for salvation,
crossing the self to deny
shelter to the Devil
)

i saw the Devil anyways
           but did not bleed
and now, here we are
and the sun rises

i’ll savor my womanhood, we’ll savor
our womanhood,
and the sun rises
and you are brilliant
       beneath the glow

– Stephanie Ambroise

“I don’t know”

I know the truth, on the hazy summer days
when heat squeezes the odour out of breeze
caught flowers, sweaty inner thighs, and chlorine pools.
I know the truth of the sky in mid-turn, mid-hack
in a cloudless space, dazed by the shimmer
of sunlight that dresses it blue even if it’s
colorblind and won’t see it, I know

the truth when brownish-red popsicle syrup drips
onto a favorite white shirt, and the young girl
catches a wagged finger from the corner of her
eye, and raises the corner of her lips in glee, because
symbols can sometimes happen in pieces.
Bad, don’t, you should have known better,
look what you’ve done now, and the pleasure
of a life lived up to expectations,
I.
know.
The.
Truth.

The wagged tail of a dog up and down, off beat
with the tennis ball, and the desire to catch it sonically,
woof woof woof, the comfortable swoof of the
pads of feet pushed off concrete and the clap
of baby hands whose fingers tasted green felt last,
caught in her own wave of giggles, certain it can ride
it uninjured to a comfortable adult livelihood.
I know the truth.

The echoed screech of pain as bullets penetrate brown skin, off
key to the abrupt baritone of gunshots, sonically measured to
match the abrupt stop of a heart. I know the truth of green bills
corners lifted in glee, given to colorblind white murderers
with the pleasure of a life lived up to expectations. I
know the truth of a pointless chase, of justice ripped from
the bloody teeth of brown bodies hungry for a simple taste,
always told to drop it. The truth of a summer sun-pushed scent
of death from body like the odour of dying grass, a soundless
avatar of a scream, and responsible onlookers who fail to gather
I.
know.
The.
Truth.

Of a collected gathering of grief, hard at work to stand unshaken
in a crowd ringed by chaos, yet always named as such.

-Stephanie Ambroise

Of Many Faces

check out my political blog

A4Resilience

I read a story about a little white boy who was shot to death by police because of some marijuana. The crazy part about that for me was that there didn’t seem to be any outrage about it. No one was protesting, no white people was on the news talking about police brutality. And that made me wonder because this can’t have been the first case of a white person getting wrongfully killed by the police. But as far as I’ve been paying attention, the only time white people seem to talk about police brutality is after a black person has said something about it. Until a black person has set some shit on fire.

And then I realize that it’s because they don’t want to do any of the work. In order for white people to stand up against shit like this, they’d have to admit their way isn’t…

View original post 277 more words