2018 Jean E. Corrie Poetry Prize

 

 

Bathe me mother, I said. Bathe me like you bathed those flowers. The broken boy did not touch me today. His only sin was humming with the birds, and nothing else, Mother. Mother, he ate swallowed sharp paper. He wanted to lick my fingers. Mother, he wanted to burn the skin off my bones. Remember when I told you I lost my teeth—he stole those, too. 

 

The white man who stepped all over my feet, mother, he stole my colors. He drew all over my walls, mother. He fractured the bones you helped me build. Mother— Mother are you listening? Can you still hear me?

 

Today I saw father step all over your throat but you remained sane. You and I are mirrors. When your petals turned to flames, my tongue tasted of ash. The rain will never wash our wounds away, mother. Bathe me mother, I said. Bathe me like you bathed those flowers