The shore is self-realized, every
minute mineral owned by itself and the others,
and meets but does not need the ocean, although
passersby see them exist as one, like the sky
and that cloud which hangs like bated breath
in wait of either its fall or evanescence
in full embrace of either destiny, while
enveloped by the azure that loves
but does not possess
or own or brag
that it also has it’s entire self
wrapped around the ocean waves that leap
into it’s very center,
to retreat back home,
in love,


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i dont (episode 4: a breakout series)

i don’t
remember the last time
i remembered myself,
caught the lobe of my ear
dangling off a ray of the star,
Sirius, loud and self-embracing

me, i’m tired of the pick apart
put together caused by self-explosion and the
subsequent scavenge of the earth
for the most minute monuments of me
(like last night, i was so desperate
for the left side of my pinky toe,
and I could still stand
is it greed if i have this
need while i know
i still need?

shouldn’t this desperate
desire be enough
for me?

– Stevie

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i don’t (episode 3: a breakout series)

i don’t
have the will
to wake some days,
to rent another breath
that compounds this loan when I already
don’t make enough joy (i know my right eye twinkles
with three less rays
than that passerby)

now, I’ve had my 50th
call from God, all asks for payment
trailed by the threat of confiscation of property
(i’ve almost been confiscated sixteen times),

had to bear my entire weight on ragged knees,
brown skin scrapped back, wrist
thrust forward bathed in the stench
of three-year old trashed memories
from my scavenge for belly born

and i get the extension

but we both know
all my smiles are just
begs for more time
i may never afford


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i don’t (episode 2: a breakout series)

i don’t
take risks anymore, i don’t
sink my hands
into the welcoming
grit of moistened ground,

i hope to be stopped by gold
at my feet,
afraid of dirty

though my face is read, and my veins
have blown, blew backwards
ugly to be backwards and lost,

where mom is the only sense still
made while she sleeps in a bed
made of bugs with the silent partner
of the unspoken abuse from my

in the AM, I wake to
the pelts of a painful hailstorm
of passionate prayer
and the gust
from open lips,
hungry as the eye

desperate for straight
as the right direction, but there is
no direction to the dead
but under, where nothing is a risk
and everything is

still, i wanted their approval,
less me,
less speak,
let’s be
let’s be solid,
let’s be statue,
let’s be fluid only when other hands move me,
dimensional only when warm bodies circle around,
full of life only when passersby are desperate
to be moved by a sorrow chiseled so still,
their breath caught trembling in the air…

pupils risen
above nothing
that beats or flows,
let’s be something less than dead,
who’s bodies were at least
dignified by the act of being
buried, i dreamed of it once

upon a time, i was
woken by the fatal
kiss of my own screams,
pressed by hatred
on all sides,
heart flowing,

– Stevie

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I don’t (a breakout series)

i don’t
have any advice, i’m still

glued to the sight of my beauty
arrested in the wind, a shaky brown

for escape from a hungry nature (
I’m sure it doesn’t want to be seen like this

i’ve never sensed simplicity
to be so complex, or had a thing
as dense

be so elusive as to be caught by a passing
breeze, but never
an eye

that wanders, never

that search, and I’m lost
at this sudden need
to look

before it turns to look back.

– Stevie

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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

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The Unheard Pain You Know

you know you didn’t birth the yolk
of growth to a flower’s bloom, and
you can’t wind-shake the thought
of the plagiarization of scars from your skin

this wound is copyrighted, but the world
named me as velvet-tongued martyr

these wind-whispers that touch
but cannot be have no interest to
the bristle-tongued burrowers beneath
rain they summon again and again
to create reasons for alliteration chains
to be swung, then hooked into a groove
for easy climbs and sudden drops.

these rugged scabs are not your land-
scapes, please leave me dry

yet, lasers of enlightenment swept onto dark
holes -irises- to stimulate a mass ejaculation
of breath at the nonconceptual,
the after sound of a gasp, a privileged disbelief

i hope you get lost in the dust
particles’ evanescence

as you kneel
at my healing,
what you think as ancient wisdom

i pray this poem implodes.
i pray you get buried
where the words
never know
to find you.

-Stephanie Ambroise

Posted in affirmation, black art, black lives matter, diary, nostalgia, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment