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
desperate

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
legs

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

before it turns to look back.

– Stevie

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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

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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,
deciphering
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

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A New Site: For QTPOC Mental Health Resources

QTPOC Mental Health Resources

A new site is launching that is combining resources and giving queer & trans people of color a chance to have a voice through art creation and essay writing.

Any assistance you can think of, whether it is sharing this post, liking it, or donating funds that go towards paying the editors, writers and artists would be amazing.

Thank you so much for reading, and sending you love.

Stephanie Ambroise

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An Ode to Poem-A-Day

i leave already read poems
in my inbox. eye them as
treasures, Jacks-in-the-box I know
will tickle the child
inside that cries. how they
stay there, dusty with neglect,
and how they glow
with the quality to hold on hand
a magick continuously unknown to me,
like the nuance contained
in the way she wrote the words
“apple tree” I may not have picked
up on yet, or how the next time I
get to the end, I may not think of
my friend, discontinued by anger,
how I wish he would talk to me,
and tell me something
different.

-Stephanie Ambroise

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Sophrosyne: A Shroud of Poetry

My book, Sophrosyne: A Shroud of Poetry, is now available for purchase on Amazon Kindle!

I hope that you all enjoy it!

Warm regards,

Steph Ambroise

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“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

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