I wish you were in bed with me
I sometimes need a pillow
between my legs and two fingers
in my mouth.
I’m not a little girl. I’m a good girl
who wants to know where her next vice is coming from.
And your thumb looks ripe enough.
How bout I ask nicely
the sky if it can’t
for one night be my womb—
how many kites or planes or wads of spit
or white-winged egrets can fit
inside a sail.
I keep an extra pregnancy
test on me,
what with all this water around.
In case I feel pregnant again
and you aren’t here to tell me
it’s not yours.
The coast I know feels too far to say for sure
and you were a boat
just last week
with a moan of fog caught
above your brow
begging to be let over the bow
to dissipate atop the ocean.
I like this game
Where it rains
And under my jeans my thighs know it.
What else grows besides a rolling lust
a bowling hunger
a swollen river, a crack of thunder.
Anonymous asked: (CONTINUED)My other brown friends. And they've told me that it's cus brown families are really judgmental and he has to take it slow. But I mean, how slow is slow? Do you think I'm overreacting? I'm just tryna get a fresh, outside perspective on the whole situation is all. Thanks in advance.
I think you have to seriously ask yourself how long you can wait. I have had friends in the same situation who’s significant others never told their parents about them and they wasted so many years on that vain hope. It’s not a matter of timing. It’s a matter of courage. You know that God has called a man to leave his family and cleave to his wife. Your boyfriend has a choice to make, a choice that will never go away. Either he will make it or he will grow tired of hiding from his parents and chose a girl who he feels like he is expected to be with. But you also have a choice to make. How long do you want to wait? What if he never introduces you? Are you ok with living in the shadows?
My stomach is a dark hole with direction and I burn some name in it.
It turns to fuel. The time
for benevolent love is over: opened
Joshua tree. In the grip of its branches
a goblet to catch the dribble-down sky. God doesn’t
weep. He’s finished. He’s famished. He’s drooling
from the aisles of his mouth.
Damn it if love don’t fall straight,
if its retrograde. If it does mercury’s
dart forward for it. On to the end. Due north
to the very clavicle of winter. I jump and I pump my legs.
Some boys is poison.
Some boys are the only diamond you’ll ever wear. I wore
the restaurateur and the preacher’s son till they wouldn’t come off
in the tub ,
and a boy with no roots until he found the place on me my folks forgot to give a proper burial,
to wash at my Christening. His love
was five acts long with a funeral
in every scene.
I wore black to keep the flies at bay. The honey in my tea
was sand. It was sand. Because the only thing that wasn’t claimed
was the strip of beach between my breasts whiter than the flesh
that begs a man.
Here X. This Flag X Means X. I’ve Been X Discovered
for the Crown
on your head was made of garlands.
You of the gazelle, you covered in hair, you the grassland.
Snake who guzzles the meat of its tail,
wrecking and calcifying your own myth. You, stone God
who demands East and West of sacrifice, the heart in 30 seconds or less. You prophet casting dawn and other spells
over me. Baptized. Bewitched. THE FLOOD IS A FIXTURE.
Everywhere it fits around
the ankles. Around my wrists, around waist, the neck. Down the throat and in the eyes and through the ears which have no permanent closure
against the ragged jewel of your voice.
I wore my garments into the world and shed them cruelly like teeth in milk,
only you rejoiced.
You hold my legs open like the arms
of a scissor and thrust
your penis between
but not inside. Only
the same way a customer service clerk
at Macy’s opens the scissors and uses
one edge to curl a ribbon.
A few more thrusts & you’re
I don’t climax and yet I like this game more than you do—
It lets me know I’m a razor.
I make crooked paths straight.
Anonymous asked: People have asked you this before I'm sure.. and you've probably answered this a few times..but what is 'Paris in the Rain' about exactly?
About being in love in Paris in the rain.
Anonymous asked: what's your usual writing routine? do you still write when you have no will nor inspiration to do so?
Absolutely. You have to do at least one thing for the betterment of your craft every day. Whether that is write, edit, read, analyze, submit. Got to.
Anonymous asked: Miss harris i am thinkin bout take my own life i am a single mother tryin to make a dollar out of fifty cent i am tellin you because some how i think you might care if you dont then i understand
Tell God how you really feel. Then ask him to meet you in this place of darkness, exhaustion, exasperation, pain. Death is not an answer. Striving only ceases when you enter God’s rest. And God’s rest is active. God’s rest is his purpose. You woman are created for a divine purpose. God delights in you. Take delight in him and find your purpose.
Hollowed by spoons, a cup of jello
the shape of its missing
Besides the sound
the world makes underwater,
Absence is also
a neon scream.
I mutter in
for the one who fills
my blood with
commas, for the one who is to me
bridge. All night
& am dry. Sealed.
Where the air is kept
3 to 5 minutes
crawl like stars,
A heartbeat loops &, &
Somewhere there is
in all that hopes.