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:: Liberating the Grapes by Ellen Underwood ::

I was a dancer then,
poignant and powerful,
a body longing to imitate
the letter "P"

I am the cobra goddess Uazit.
My foreign blood brought out by my
wicked twin. My sweet other. [she is]
a poetic terrorist, dropping
atomic word-bombs on
the seemingly innocent
    [laughs hard at misfortune]
forgetme. forgetme. forgotten
you. Celestial war
in our hands, we possess
    [Nudge me] NOW!
He held my sweet hand between
his knees and faded
  now [should have been now]
matter is something
(like water) Disagreed.
We are the things are of silk
ribbons, loosely knotted.
Slice the excess flesh
near my belly. [permission granted]
If I promise not to scream?

My flesh
is greed, green,
grayed in and
green. In his hands,
language. And it hurts
still, worse, in his hands,
worse. my body,
he says, is put aside
with the grapes, 69 cents
for a sample. [69 x 2]
SOLD. "honey," "baby,"
"girl," words
that make a flimsy noise,
not strong like "body,"
"woman," "mine."

If he choose, the grapes
crush in his palm, but
come fast the juice, my purple
prints in his cuts
stain. I could rise,
erupt, explode,
splatter. Liquid,
like woman, how would
you have me?

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