11/6/2017 Poetry by Brittany FonteSuffer 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. Comments are closed.
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