Mya G. studies poetry at Sarah Lawrence College, where she is an MFA student. Originally from Tuscaloosa, Alabama, Mya has lived and traveled all over the world. While attending law school, she started an open mic reading series in Jacksonville, Florida and has participated in several readings in New York, DC, and Florida. You can find her work published in the literary journal Dark Phrases.American Girl I Harlot lips. No words. Cardboard boxed, plastic- wrapped. Plastic screenveiled, for easy viewing, just laser incisions, man-made mechanical arms, opposable thumbs, ready to make some one money and an other someone smile. And no way to gesture without aid or add texture to the inelastic, no tripping over next steps, there are no steps. Where are my feet? More outsourced decisions. Not the beauty of Dali’s Rose or Grecian urns. An insignificant thing in a neat package, smothered with greasy fingerprints and stale breath. Left. Dented box and crushed edges. No mirror kind enough to play wishing well. How did Joan ever conquer Orleans, how did Truth ever go back again, and again, alone? A: Alone. American Girl II I. It seems the bridge of my nose dips too low for fancy; cheeks sit high as the Creek, overflowing; I am bronzeBlack, therefore I am blueBlack confederate– Alabama. And the homeless woman pushing the Old Cart is yelling from down the block–– the block that turns into a circle–– it doesn’t matter what shade of brown I am–– she will call me that because I am that. II. I tell you this violence permits & disallows, I tell you this violence inherits, I tell you I keep it. And the execution will come right out of my mouth; whoever you are, I’ll reveal it. Crowd here for the Lights Show; I’ll spit a moving picture: trees, strung with bodies like paper lanterns. Swung Open & Separated Me, I am the Door –– a sanded Truth –– woodflesh exposed –– almost Hollow –– enough to keep Light still Interested in Passing though –– I want that –– Unsaid –– Immortal –– to whisper Me –– won’t run too fast –– out the Wilderness –– sweep Me up, I won’t run. Kinesiophobia: ℞only The orthopedic specialist has a two-pronged theory for Pain–– injury vs. sensitivity; and how I am a victim of the latter; my back, an infinite sequence, of reaction, requires a mood stabilizer and seperate ℞ for a book on Sensibility. Cymbalta on the kitchen table, with a box of tampons, and rotten red wine, recorked two months ago–– my greatest fear, manifested––Fear of Movement, this quiet vacuum lifting nerves at the root, left leg numb down to the smallest toe. I am no longer the Door but the bathtub; open container; full with a family.
August: Mya G.