Sarah Jefferis

 
The Rhythm

I do not know why you cover my face when
you are inside of me I reach
for your sharp jawline with my hands—
I say     look    at     me
 
You are bone after bone—hollow, a reed,
a recorder when you are supposed to be open
you disappear—disconnect from the bind,
 
from your taut skin on my couch.
I could have whistled through your skeleton
who had lost all in Hurricane Maria.
 
I could have been any other curvy mama
who wanted to be seen but settled for invisibility.
I do not heed the warning, the siren,
 
the rise of the tide. I turn off the channel.
Ignore the wind chimes.
I talk myself out of myself
 
on the regular—
I allow you to cross me
Sometimes I break
 
my own self before you
get the chance; I dare you
I’ll beat you to it.

Not a Homemaker
 
I don’t live
in your heart.
Though you say I could
squat there.
I want to believe
you won’t auction it out
to the highest bidder.
Who are you when
you have not seen me
in weeks, and you have me
in between your legs
and welcome home
is the first word out
of your mouth.
I am not your home maker,
Not a housewife, a lover
of brick and mortar.
I would rather spit shine
my dream of runways and oceans
of bioluminescence
of the island of Maldives
where the stars come
and submit to the undertow.