“Fire—Adam Taylor” (from S3E6 of ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’)
I spoke,
albeit
regrettably,
kneeling under
memorial ruins
of some abolitionist.
The former Capitol
drowned in red like
rows of holly berries,
taint to tongue.
Look at our
Birthing Bitches and
Delivery Doomsday-ers
such National Nativity’s
those Childbearing Cunts,
our Mothers.
Pray for sons and daughters,
for miracles and
plump pussies.
Our little blessings
they said,
pray for
Slaves,
I corrected, before
the bat clocked me
into black.
It cost me an arm and a leg
gnawed off with a hack saw
no drug, just bone
milk-white and blood —
She doesn’t need an abled body
to stretch her thighs wide.
Married
He laughed,
as if what
he handed
me was a
comedy.
A warm piece
of loose leaf
from his
pocket, frayed
at the edges
like a mossy
carpet, no title,
just words.
He assured
me they were
just words.
A joke, no
meaning,
shake them off
as a “what if.”
It’s romanticized,
but
fictionalized,
he swore.
Of course, all
roses are not red,
no sunset is
alike, but I saw
a dog, then —
brown-eyed and
admonished.
He won’t chew
my shoelace a
second time.
No,
he won’t
write me a
love poem
again.
Maya is a recent graduate of Saint Joseph’s University where she served as Editor-in-Chief of the literary magazine titled, Crimson & Gray. More recently, her work is featured in the Sigma Tau Delta Rectangle, Wingless Dreamer, Poet’s Choice, The Ignatian Literary Magazine, Quibble Lit, and Clepsydra Literary and Art Magazine. Maya resides outside of Philadelphia where she works as a Professional Writing Tutor.