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Four Poems

Wardrobes

How is yours
better
than mine…
when you
take yours
and, run…
don’t share…
or you
hide it…
or leave it
in a closet
ignored?
How is yours
more
precious
when you
wrap
yourself up in it
at night
and leave me
cold?
Why does yours
get to be
armour
and mine
gets to be
flesh
turned inside out?

-Tenille Brown, 2011

Untitled

It is not
an infant.
You don’t have to
hang around
for its sake.
Matter of fact,
you can pack
all its
cute little clothes,
bundle it up
nice, tight,
and warm
and carry it
with you
when you go.
I won’t
fight you
for custody
or
ask for visitation
or
pictures every
now and then.
I won’t even
acknowledge
I’m its mama.
I won’t
regret it
like an abortion
or wonder
“what it?”
like an adoption.
It’s not a child.
It won’t have
separation anxiety
or be fucked up
for life
behind this.
But
it will
wipe the dirt
off its coat,
find a hanger
and jump
right on
a brand new rack.

-Tenille Brown, 2011

Hostage

And I
don’t care
how big
or strong
you insist
it is.
It will
not…
It can
not…
It did
not…
hold you
against
your will

-Tenille Brown, 2011

In Inches

I want someone to give me
a ruler
So that I might
measure it.
Because…
If mine
stretches
from here to here…
and yours
stretches
from there to there
then what is
the difference?
Because
if my love
simply stretches
and has worn
over time
but yours
skips spaces
and
cuts corners,
then
might mine
be bigger?
Wider?
Truer?
Or…
you think…
the same?

-Tenille Brown, 2011

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