Poetry by Brittany Fonte

Suffer and Suffocating

It was like she held a pillow over
her Mid-Western words; syllables were faint.
Silence by distance: I am too sober.
My response was deference because, war paint.
It’s always safe when there’s no argument;
with pent-up feelings you’re never lonely.
She was complicit with his mental rant;
I was his daughter in my name, only.
Stuck between blood and harmony, I saw
“unconditional” is not true, nor free.
To me, he text, “Have a good life,” (tight jaw).
But then, he said he didn’t disown me.
Like Peter, I must unstick genes’ shadows,
learn when to hold on and when to let go.




Type

An uploaded mind/
Hashtag confident (in bed).
Unfettered with heart,

Compassion is key:
One unstomped bug, a cup.
Gentle hands for hips.

Winking. Smile—teeth—cheeks.
Witty and assertive and
Has read more (then, books.)

Zen and then heart rate
up-shifting and so certain.
Time is still when she…

Is not still near me.
An uplifting spirit, kind:
Palming eyes and hands.

​


This Ivory Coast

My son giggles in his sleep:
a porcelain child,
in this world, marble,
cocooned in ivory insulation,
translucent as bullet-proof glass,
sleeping without care in pristine clouds
of DNA.
He giggles.

My daughter’s face is furrowed,
but not with worries of what is outside,
what is pigmented or not;
she is pink and freckled,
mainlines with majority,
breathes hard. Dreams.
She sleeps the peace of privilege.
She lives.

I am not giggling nor peaceful.
I live, though pricked awake, awash
and pained with loss
in the wake of leaded children
torn from my loaded lap.
Torn.

​

Bio: Brittany Fonte holds an MFA in Creative Writing. She is the author of three books and the co-editor of a Lambda Literary Finalist in Poetry Anthology. She lives in Maryland.