The Seventh Wave
Some fears are
like the seventh wave,
They hit hard,
even while
you play card
games of distant memories,
on a silver moon
shore.
They visit in
sleep,
when you travel
along
those narrow
streets of
closed windows
and collaged walls.
As I move
uneasily on my bed,
not dreaming of
blue eyes, but
moving away from
the body that smells of my origin
chasing
the Pecola of my
nakedness,
I stumble upon,
conveniences
sunlight
midnight
amnesia
silence
folktales
mythology
the genome
project
flames
from self-portraits, or
occasional
lightening
flashing across
my windowpane.
With a history,
that will survive me,
of doubts,
deliriums and darlings,
war bodies of
guerrilla front,
I won’t sleep
again
this night
or in another
era.
Pecola : The protagonist of The Bluest Eye by Toni
Morrison
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