Poetry

pomegranate streetwalker

24 March 2020

walking is therapeutic but 

I’m seven 

pushing my bike down the lane 

the crunchy gravel sounds delicious 

sour cream and onion chips 

and the tinkle of sparkly pink handlebar streamers 

a man turns 

I cringe without knowing why 

 

walking alone at night is 

 

my friend tells me men look at her chest 

we’re at the supermarket sitting on the floor, waiting for our parents 

we’re fifteen

she’s disgusted 

I’m jealous 

 

idiotic.

I walk anyway

brave and 

 

I look at boys at seventeen 

I keep waiting for it to feel like pink chiffon 

light and airy 

a frisson of first-look longing 

but I always 

tense first 

 

arrogant.

I hold my breath as I walk past three men 

their gaze hits my stomach, soup-heavy sick 

I’m reminded of jackals 

I’m reminded 

 

I attached a padlock to my keys 

when I was twenty: deadly weapon 

I’m thinking about having it 

engraved with womanhood 

 

I’m meat

or maybe a pomegranate 

arils and arils spilling out of me onto the asphalt 

pink and round like blood clots


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