The Seventh Wave


Some fears are like the seventh wave,
They hit hard, even while
you play card games of distant memories,
Narcissist moves of redemption,
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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