I am no one's vessel. No god
has touched me. Still, I wait,
nursing a sacrifice in the dark.
It is the unmaking I crave
without the promise of remaking
or the presence of prophecy.
Mary is the one to aspire to
but from birth, Jezebel
has been a name,
a ligature tied around
my wrists, my ankles—
tight enough to bruise—
a relentless ache.
My name is not my own
but my name
is what makes me
almost real.
VOUS LISEZ
THE TWENTY SECOND YEAR
PoésieAt birth, we are all sentenced to life- to live. highest ranking: #4 in poembook #4 in poemcollection © z. t. corley, 2024
