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Tyurina Allen

Date of Birth: 6/12/82
Location: North Dakota
Published in: Poetic Voices of America, Stirring V2:E1


I am sleeping, belly up to my neck.
The dead corpuscles are laughing.
Mother, I was never a Goddess.

I must confess I was 60's in high heels.
Short skirts, a pivot of knees.
Hands canning bottles as stingy as winter.

I know the moon itself was never new,
its green cheese was eaten by pilgrims.
The black and white Thanksgiving.

Together I let my hair down voiceless.
Silence is who I talk of much.
Her letters echo in my mind like arrowheads.

Aligned, they whisper only of past holidays.
1975 and 1975, it is a confession.
I was never the uniformed maid.

My black vertebras strung off me long ago.
Like Christmas, I am wrapped.
The plastic is my Father.

In private he eats me like cheesecake.
Youthful, I could never be more fascinated.
Fascination is my origami paperweight.

The phases are only temporary.