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.
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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.
Christina I. Rodriguez
August 11, 2011 at 3:54 pm
Having attended law school with the lovely and talented Mya G., I can say that she exudes raw energy – healing, addictive, and sensual. A sure fire target of what’s to come, Mya is far beyond her years and thankfully in my present. Congrats and keep shining dear friend, not that you can help it.
Victoria
August 11, 2011 at 4:44 pm
Mya is a great poet – thank you for sharing these poems!! And the picture of her is rad too!