|
Cynthia Manick
Page 3 Dear Taipei in the Morning
The side market rumbles with
the suck of steam. Skewered
meat on poles revolve like greasy
marbles and all I see is a room
by the river, where I lay down
with a man with skin lighter
than mine. A weaver pulling out
secrets and pieces to share–
he unfolds me like red feathers,
twine, and azaleas too strong
for any flower festival. Ladies
with their carts sell dyed cloth
and jewelry. He catches the eyes
of a silver chain where glass
birds reflect the light, but I wander
to a woman doing a delicate dance
with crabs. It takes seconds for hands
to pinch off antennas and chop
heads. I think of band-aids on scraped
knees, my aunt holding me down
for quick pain. I think of calluses
and cowboys, hands that know
what the body knows. The crab’s coral
shell is pulled, dropped in a blue
bucket.
The
woman nods and says this
way
keeps the flavor,
like I want
to keep his flavor. Places my fingers
on the open crab lungs, to me
they feel like marigold miracles
on the open gill-type lungs, to me they feel like marigold miracles.
Blue Hallelujahs from the Hand
In the right light I’m beautiful.
Covered in flour and paprika
balled cubes of meat,
you can still see patterns
fault lines in the palm center;
the first throw of jacks
and rocks when I was six,
golden frogs that bleed
and bleep so high;
a body twirl in Sunday’s best
colored swan lake
smoothed gloves in church peach;
the steam of the hot comb
the weight of it
cause nappy heads can’t hold
cherry barrettes or the sound
of light-skinned caramel boys;
grandmothers words–
you have to pull flesh
from the throat not the belly,
you are two kins away
from pulled cotton,
don’t waste any part of the pig
stir hog soup when cold comes;
the cool wash of river
on stiff limbs when death came, settled
her like a nesting doll;
all was changed with corn whiskey
out of fruit jars, and fingers
trailing the land of bodies
twice-licked;
Christ is amazed
with taffy babies
those shriveled sweet things–
with vein-rich palms of their own.
In the kitchen I’m beautiful.
Garlic and onion shines brown
in the light, and fistfuls of mackerel
cover nails at the seams–
it tempers a woman
cause the muscle knows
how to wield a knife
and hold close salted migrations.
-Appeared in BLACKBERRY: a magazine
© Copyright, 2015,
Cynthia Manick. |