Dana Kinsey, two poems

September 1, 2017

 An Offering to Maya

 

“I gave birth to one child, a son, but I have thousands of daughters.  You are Black and White, Jewish and Muslim, Asian, Spanish-speaking, Native American and Aleut.  You are fat and thin and pretty and plain, gay and straight, educated and unlettered, and I am speaking to you all.”              ~Maya Angelou from Letter to My Daughter

 

Edgar Allen Poe always feared premature burial;  

You memorized his poems while buried alive

in a five-year     post-rape          silence.

Losing words made them worth more and so you

mastered languages: French, Spanish, Hebrew, Italian,

and Fanti…so many hope-filled phrases knew your tongue,

expressions for daybreak, dignity and always forgiveness.

Even for two-finger Mark, lover turned savage, who beat you

with a wooden slat until your lips were speared by your teeth

and your mother fainted at the sight of your swollen face.

But wild independence cast your six-foot frame and so you

became the first female streetcar driver in San Francisco     

at 14          and you vehemently refused to tolerate profanity  

not even from Tupac, who cried from sharp pain when you talked

soft honey to him     and you never merely spoke    you blended in

love songs and spiritual songs even when they killed The King

on your 40th birthday, a day the world weeps still.

Oh, caged bird, Dunbar’s daughter, you soared freely with

the generous wing-span of a prehistoric bird swooping down

to enchant Broadway and sing Miss Calypso in a red silk dress

It took 7 autobiographies to tell us what you gleaned from

life and the dinner parties you threw to celebrate blessings,

ones that you knew hid softly under southern rocks and trees,

ones that would have been missed by mortals like us.

And you loved making biscuits, kneading with thankful fingers

amidst intolerance that sheer alchemy converted to 24-carat resolve

and your son Guy could say “Mama,” but I confess I whisper it too.

 

 

 

The Child Left Behind

 

Your spiky hair won’t wound enemies.

Piercing all of your body parts

won’t release Pain.

No one will notice next week.

 

Pain mangles your kidneys

despite your vodka drownings;

it Crayolas a soul quicker than

needles tattoo flesh.

 

Pain sparks a bonfire;

your purest weed can’t compete.

She laces her high-heeled boots with your guts;

your most skilled lover cannot

untie the damage.

 

A household of guilt is easy to award, but that’s not my job.

I could lull you to sleep with Chaucer, but that’s not my job.

I could stroke your hand and hear you for once, but that’s not my job.

 

You slid into my seating chart –

this bloodied, cynical fax of a child and I must teach you.

 

Hell, there’s no Mother Teresa in me,

Certainly no Helen Keller in you –

and yet here we are.

 

It’s you, me, Macbeth and Grendel.

Pull your foggy brain up off that desk.

 

Pay some respect to the woman I’ll become

when I ease my way around your land mines

and reach your mind.

 

Dana Kinsey has a BA in English and an MA in Theater from Villanova University.  She is a poet, actor, freelance writer, fine-arts teacher, and theater director.  She is a faculty member in the Fine and Performing Arts Department at Lancaster Catholic High School in Pennsylvania where she teaches Acting Technique, Dramaturgy, British Literature, and Playwrighting. Dana's screenplay, WaterRise, was filmed in Manhattan by Sagesse Productions and will be released at a variety of film festivals later this year. She also crafted the story into a one-act play and it premiered at the historic Gene Frankel Theatre in New York City in June 2015 in conjunction with the Radioactive Festival for female playwrights.  Visit www.wordsbyDK.com for more information.

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