[untitled] by Gemma Pinto
i cannot make the bread while you win.
in time
my dreams will resurrect
the world will pour over
i don’t have to be the wife that does as she is told
and if there happens to be a little me running around,
she will know.
that she can conquer the world
not with an apron but with a jersey
like her mother, she will be wordy
worthy of positions in the house
and the senate
swim through society
and penetrate the image in the minds of men
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i cannot tell if you are mocking me
when i can still feel your lips on mine
during your absence
or if it is a candied haunting
i can hear syllables marching from our photos
an exclusive parade
eloquent and colorful
it is all i want to listen to
i cannot see a difference between my flesh and yours
the alleyways in my palms connect to the roads in your palms
who knew our hair could make a perfect meadow
our skin became one color when we decided
i can taste the first day of Spring in your saliva
we are born of that season
no wonder every encounter
has a flavor of home
i cannot feel the earth grumbling beneath my feet
with you, there are two kinds of speeds
slowed down time, i appreciate the lines your forehead makes
the speed of light time, i lose track of myself in your embrace
i can smell the sun rising when you are near
a fragrance not stored on a shelf but
wrapped up next to me when i sleep
an aroma to not be repeated
i am dumb. you make me forget the ways.
i don’t remember how to end
these kinds of
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