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,
the genome project
flames from self-portraits, or
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
or in another era.
Pecola : The protagonist of The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison