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New Poetry, Fiction, Essay

4 poems by Tracee A. Clapper

From Charleston, SC. On a journey to heal myself, and anyone else who crosses my path – I’m a seeker, a mom, a wife, a friend, a birder and a poet. I seek connection with the divine feminine, all of nature, and humans who truly see me and accept me as I am. Writing facilitates the evolution of my soul in a way that nothing else provides.

 

 

Birth control devices for the whore of babylon

She spreads her legs
when men tell her               men who smear
her name   sneer at her chosen job

                           hobby   passion   art    therapy

 in sunlit streets

 long man-shadows  lose themselves

                memories  tangled  in cotton sheets
trembling under sweaty thighs
they gasp for breath and cry
kneel   thankful

                   for her  dark  damp

                                         haven

little girl in a woman’s body   searches  for      father   mother

                                                                     love

         small   broken she finds her place   power

    stroking penises     egos      ’til they’re so big

                                                                 scared

                                                             ashamed

                they explode

                         cursing

her clitoris     vulva     breasts

                          yelling    naming her Whore

                                                           Slut

                                                           baby killer

when all she’s done is relieve

                                  your itch

               offered you reprieve

            dug herself into a hole

       of undeserved judgement

from man-babies who would rather she lie silently

                                                              in the night

than speak any truth                              in the light.

 

My mother must have loved me; she said to see her child grieve is harder than her own grieving

My teenage son rips off his masks
like stripping husks from corn
stands pale and blushing in noon’s sunlight
held in the arms of love’s first dawning.In soft whispers, sometimes hiding
his eyes, others daring me to blink,
short of breath, he shares the coaster track
he rides through this very new thing.In the evening, sounds of sobbing seep
under his bedroom door, his man-voice
cracks like an electric saw slipping off
the edge of wood, tripped by a knot.The noise isn’t drowned by his stereo speakers
turned to full blast and I hold up a wall in the hallway
my own shoulders slumped.I wipe my face with the backs of my hands
remind him to breathe, offer water
become his midwife
as he births
his grief.

[ Four kites hover ]

Four kites hover
tails like airplane flaps
turning to steer as they soarmimosa blossoms brown
as the air sucks moisture
from their feathery petalsI pause a moment
while summer races to erase
last springtime moves forward
and everything becomes
redundanteven my poetry
loops back to you
in ways I never can.

If she had hugged me when I was ugly, the demons would’ve left me alone

Light and shadows slide
across my bedroom wall
cars rolling past – eyes blink, but won’t shut

if the doorknob is pointed at the right space
between the door jamb and the light switch
the boogeyman won’t swallow me

In daylight I scream my voice raw,
pound fists into walls
silently beg her to wrap around me

scent of covergirl and oil
of olay skin on skin
bitter coffee breath


jamming led into journal pages
calling her Bitch,
She or Her

Demons eat my brain
I didn’t write those words,
those weren’t my screams!

Mommy, will you give a hug
tightly squeeze me,
body collapsing on your chest?

Mommy, will you help 
chase the monsters away?

The Bitch
never did.

I buried them
by myself.

 

 

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