The Art of Collage

Collage is a Woman's art

it is breaking and the taking

of memories and bones, small fingers

Cracked, under the weight of skies lifted.

It is a gathering of tears and ancestors

whose wombs begot wombs begot wombs,

ripening and shedding until the moon dipped,

taking its harvest to a new lover while we are left

to bury the seeds of unknown fruit.

Collage is a Poet's art

it is the twisting and the gleaning of water

from a rag, filled with the blood of dreams and nightmares

slow bodies rolled into a chiffonade

paper cuts, knife cuts, words cut.

It is a balm of indifference that numbs the scythe of sentences

running out like children at sunset,

never looking back.

Collage is the art of My People

it is the push and pull of borders and tribes

of blankets scattered like souvenirs

while kids walk, cold, with baskets filled of broken stories.

Stories that tell of powerful warriors and women with skin like honey

whose legacies are reborn as fast as they are taken.

Collage is My art

it is the pacing and my lacing,

grommets looped with my heart strings,

pulled tight while I wait for the glue to dry.

It is my mask and my vice

a lifetime of painful beauty collected,

ear, neck, chin, lip

lessons learned from the demons who haunt my bed

and the angels I sleep with.

It is a slow roasting of my soul,

a smolder that make my bones ache and beg for release.