She’s not “maternal,” she’s dangerous.
—Jamaal MayI have no charms. Admittedly.No gold comb can move throughThis mane. My skin is not translucent.Mine is a tail to fear. I know.And though a mother may destroy,She too sees fit to create beautyThat would eventually grow into formsI would swallow if I gave inTo my hungers. But, up from my wounds—From this goat’s body—Up from my wood-smoke lungs, fromThe milk of me, comes a song, a melodyTo open yours, then lick them clean.