Wiley - Nothing Is Okay

You are reading a poetry e-book, which, based on the settings of your device, can result in significant changes to the original formatting as intended by the author and publisher. For the best experience reading this book, please set your device so that the following line fits entirely on one line on your screen. Get dressed up like its prom night and your whole young glamourous life I fall in love with myself , and I want someone to share it with me. And I want someone to share me , with me. EARTHA KITT 2017 by Rachel Wiley Published by Button Poetry / Exploding Pinecone Press Minneapolis, MN 55403 | http://www.buttonpoetry.com All Rights Reserved Manufactured in the United States of America Cover Design: Amy Law ISBN 978-1-943735-30-3 Ebook ISBN 978-1-943735-38-9 When you are fat (and I am fat) the streets are full of soothsayers telling you how you will die. They all seem so anxious for my heart like its an unattended package at the airport so I move thru the world listening for my heart like it must be a clock swallowed by a crocodile.

No, a canary that goes silent much too late. No, they are certain it is going to attack, my heart, like a hungry bear on a camp ground ripping a zipper down my chest, cracking my sternum like a cheap tent pole. No, I am not at all sorry for my size so I must be a barge which would make my heart a fish washed onto the deck GaspingFloppingSlamming scales off its body like an angry beauty queen ripping sequins from a dress that didnt sparkle enough to win but then that would make my heart a beauty queen that cant walk in heels No, wait. My heart is an hourglass filled with gunpowder and at any given moment some wild spark is gonna blow me sky high so, I dont know, maybe this is why I love the way I do with teeth and swallow and song and snarl and water and sparkle and consequence maybe this is why I show up to your front door out of breath and full of dazzle like this is the last ballyhoo and nothing at all can wait till the morning. Forgive me, they keep telling me that my heart is not my heart. They keep telling me that I am dying.

This may be our last chance.

Dear MrTongueRing69, Thank you for your submission, however we were unable to read it as our office is not currently equipped with a way-back machine to travel to an era when your screen name was clever and probably somewhat alluring. I can only assume it read something like A/S/L? before launching into the screech-and-click dial-up-modem siren song of your people. Nonetheless, it is probably still safe to wish you well in finding a home for your cock. Kindest Regards, Nothing is Ok, Cupid Quarterly After Angel Nafis and Terrance Hayes Mixed Girl, White Mother Mixed Girl, Black Father Yes, really Mixed Girl, White Mothers Hair Black Fathers Lips patient while you pick and choose whats exotic enough sighs thru tired jokes about how she only gets half of Martin Luther King Day off work White Mothers Guilt Black Fathers Survival Survivors Guilt Passing wonders if its called passing because something dies inside each time carries her blackness like Peter Pans shadow shot down and stitched desperately back to her heels Mixed Girl also Fat Yes, Fat Fat, Mixed Girl reconciled the word Fat passes slowly, a heavy drop of water passes race but not weight limits sighs thru tired jokes about black men loving fat white women living punchline Fat, Mixed Girl also Queer Yes, Really Queer, Fat, Mixed Girls pronouns are She/Her/Your Majesty femme triple threat invisible double agents as Straight Shameful White Lady sighs thru tired jokes about greed as sexual orientation admits to having mostly had relationships with cis-men no less attracted to women tho no less attracted to non-binary beauty tho probably thinks youre cute probably wants to make out with you Yes, you Queer, Fat, Mixed Girl is a Feminist No shit. Yes, Feminist Feminist, Queer, Fat, Mixed Girl is full body intersection passing whiteness, passing straightness, passing weakness makes her a conceal carry revolt has one common enemy aims to gut the white supremacist patriarchy rouge her cheeks with his blood Feminist Queer Fat Mixed Girl knows he will never ever see her coming Youre welcome.

You hear me? I said youre welcome for those eyes like your mothers stolen sapphires when you couldve had your fathers mud puddles. Youre welcome. They make you look so innocent so trusting. Dont forget I got you that troubleless hair too The same hair that got you a good job or at least didnt keep you from one. You really should be more grateful. Your skin is default nude default skin tone.

No one assumes you are uneducated. I do that. For you. For Us. All of us. This ruling race of us.

Which is better than them. Which deserves more than them. Is it so hard to show a little gratitude? Its a compliment. The way the cops wont doubt you/press your face into the dirt. The way bullets wont hunt your light skin/your pink cheeks. The way I built this place a bomb shelter for you.

Stop fighting for some part of you no one can see/wants to see. Stop fighting for people that dont look like you. You got real lucky, girl. Dont you feel lucky? Dont you love the way Ive made all of this easy for you? You should show me how much you love it. Show me with those colored-girl lips you ended up with. Kneel for me like youre scrubbing a floorI know you know how.

Thats in your blood. I havent forgotten that you pass. Maybe you forgot that I am the one who crowned you queen of the paper bag prom but that can be our little secret. All you have to do is relax and let it happen.

In the Museum of Broken Relationships there is a living diorama a real and breathing spinster in bloom coated in cat hair and cynicism. Watch, as she cooks dinner for one and eats it over the sink.

Be amazed, as she ages alone save of course the cat (who is just as cantankerous as she). Behold, how she drinks bourbon straight from the bottle because it offers her a mouth to kiss. Witness, how she weeps until she dissolves and then wakes up to rebuild herself one salt grain at a time the next morning. Observe, the cavernous sigh as she realizes it will all have to be done again and again and again See the actual butterflies from her very stomach which once danced with possibility pinned by their wings. Feast your eyes, on this true human rest stop.

Remember that this chest grasp this violent sigh this exodus is temporary nothing more than a spasm though the force that knocked it from you, the weight that dipped you to the dirt, the vortex kiss that put you on your back may leave some welt or knot or void, the air will return. Remember that this chest grasp this violent sigh this exodus is temporary nothing more than a spasm though the force that knocked it from you, the weight that dipped you to the dirt, the vortex kiss that put you on your back may leave some welt or knot or void, the air will return.

Trust the bone nest cradling your pink precious lungs to mother the breath back home to you and also, to expand wide enough to sob or to sing or to just resume.