adina

“it is the end of july and
the idle breeze of gentle childhood
befogs my mind once more,
as the foreign dull heat holds my body
so close i feel it’s scarce and quiet breathing
brush against my stomach.
i have not written since paris
and i feel true in my youth at last.
the sun strips me of my fatigued masquerading while summer
feeds me plump peaches and wrinkly with ripeness figs ;
softly reciting the writings of sylvia plath and patti smith.
my bare feet greedily absorb the coolness of the cerulean tiles carpeting the guest bathroom floor.
the sea covers my ears
it’s waves plaiting my hair with the pacific touch of a mother
lulling me to a somnolent state
as the lenient light of the afternoon
blinks through my fluttering eyes
and the sparse flare of wind relieves
the creases between my eyebrows.”
― adina s.

“a pomegranate falls
she rolls away and towards
her roots
from the age of 5 to fifteen
from the man to the mother.
she is the misery
her mother delivered her through.
she combes her fingers through the unuttered spite
her mother braided into her hair.
[the threads and bows represent
the childhood she herself had been bereft of.]
my dear,
you are the apple that you eat
and spit back out.
your limp body is draped in the hereditary suffering
of the second sex,
it is engraved into the walls of your insides;
it poisons your heart,
distorts your self perception,
as god calls it girlhood,
with the malevolent mockery
of your father.”
― adina s.