The poet Iyana Sky received her Bachelor of Arts in English from the University of North Texas. Currently, she lives in Columbus, Ohio, with her husband and daughter. Her work is forthcoming in Glint Literary Journal.
Maybe it's the post-slave syndrome in me,
thinking my watered-down peach skin's able
to convince you your hands belong on me
only in caress, no matter the verity I absolve.
Yet, you do this every time I so much as
change my mind: Smile wider. Crack jokes
to my friends that would shame a farceur.
Apologize for my attitude, say I’m not feeling
well or the slight elevation change destabilizes
my hormones and you know women. Discomfort
percolates among us further than your needle lips
grasping for earlobes, all eyes on me solemn
with goodbye bids. In the car, your mouth pops
and suddenly I35-N is an asphalt chunk where
you chisel what we all know about you but
disregard: That tornado of violence created only
for my neck, the pent-up hot air colliding with
cold curses, my body loosened threads.
DEATH WHISTLES A SLOW JAM
However wicked, I want him to nibble
my ear, press my fingers to his puckered
lips before telling me this life I squandered
waiting for angels to bestow me all life's
dew-misted answers in a cheat sheet
crafted by wind and ocean
was nothing but a test run of hell. When
the rhythm and blues of my childhood,
that sultry pleading for exoneration’s
hole-infested wings, erupts from his chest
I will tilt back my head while his azure
eyes oxbow my throat, the liquid stare
freezing a crystallized dance floor
for his chiseling lips.
The cracks left will feel crisp
like a baby's first drink from her mother
and I will feel so good
I will forget what might come.