Slam Poems ("momma" and "pound")

“Momma”

Are you proud?

Did I do right by the dreams

you had for me? Your conehead opportunity,

rolling around in your belly.

Is this what you envisioned,

me singing crap songs on street corners,

slits on my wrists and echoes in my ears.

You’re echoing,

rattling all my cartilage

and the righteousness

you poured down my throat.

How am I supposed to think I’m beautiful

like you told me

when you’re stuffing yourself

with silicone, and gasoline,

and money.

They might as well dip you in formaldehyde

so I can look at you

pickled in a jar on my nightstand and say

“Look, look she’s a fucking diamond.”

How can I listen to you

telling me to keep my panties dry,

when you’re on number 3

your chest all blown up,

thighs all glitter.

How much is your monthly allowance?

Maybe I’ll write a novel,

except according to you

I can’t write a novel because that’s reserved

for people who’s brains

are fully developed.

So I guess, it’d be pretty immature

to write a book about a woman who screams

down the stairs to “Get the Fuck out

you pathetic little bitch.”

People would cry and say it’s poignant

and then they’d put it back up on their bookshelves

because my cerebral cortex isn’t fully developed

so it doesn’t count,

and anyway,

they have that luxury.

But me, I ain’t got no bookshelves

when you left you asked if we cared if we wanted anything

and we said “fuck no” and gave you our wallets.

All I got is a corner

and a box cutter

and some gauze

and I feel sterile as hell

and don’t feel it go in

as it begins again,

cutting out the mother

that thought she told me

I was beautiful.

“Pound”

Here I go again singing cradle songs

“tell me that You’ll open your eyes”

So I can distract myself

because you don’t

love me tonight and your

sweating and grunting

means I’m nothing more than a notch

on your belt

and something to brag about.

We were at this party earlier

and you laughed with everybody else

when they started in on

my fat ass and huge legs

and how my breasts have swollen

under my skin since I had

to take my pointe shoes off.

But you weren’t laughing later

when you smacked me so hard

it left a bruise,

or when you grunted with disapproval

when I wouldn’t turn over

on all fours

like a damn dog: your bitch.

It’s an appropriate metaphor

because you hold my hand sometimes

leading me around.

and my hand is a leash

and my clavicle a collar

and that’s how you got me

on this picnic table

in the first place.

I thought maybe if I

acted like it didn’t feel

like being sacrificed

if I didn’t feel like a piece

of meat

like I liked it.

Then maybe you would

decide to love me.

But you don’t and I know it

and I could see that girl

with longer hair and leaner legs

and an even fatter ass

grinning back at me from your retinas.

I flip over so it’ll be over faster

and so she can see the red marks

on my back.

So maybe, she won’t be so stupid.