Blood Ritual
Humid air swaddles my hot body.
With one bare leg draped over
the back of the porch swing,
I slowly sway in rural blue-black darkness.
Close-bitten nails. Chipped red polish.
Fingers folded flat against belly, I count
28 days since the last full moon.
On the eastern horizon,
a billowy thunderhead,
thousands of feet high, expansive
as the distance between quicken
and termination, stations itself.
Pulsating yellow‑pink, and purple flashes
illuminate the gray‑white cloud,
transient brilliancy.
A white flash quivers
through it. My skin tingles.
I listen for a thunderous rumble
to determine the lightning’s
closeness: One thousand one,
one thousand two,
the swing stops.
My moist hands press down on my womb.
I inhale heavy ionized air, smell
dewy soil’s pungent iron odor.
Appears in Women. Period. 2008 © Demetrice Anntía Worley
No Position Is a Position
As girls we catch our breaths
when family, friends, teachers,
strangers say no; we hear
you can’t,
ugly, skinny/fat,
nasty,
bitch; slide into a vacuum,
silence comes easily, comforting.
As women we long for love,
partners to fill spaces we’ve
purposely left open: hearts
waiting for completeness;
intellects waiting for challenges.
When partners, lovers,
and those others we sex
just for the fun of it, say no,
we silence our tongues, swallow
whole words until we feel full,
then we starve/gorge ourselves
with food/clothes/relationship drama
until we are in comas,
eyes open wide shut.
We women want change,
new spheres, power.
We silence our tongues,
fear political labels,
the F word, feminist,
hyphens do no better,
radical-, black-, eco-;
we search for more inclusion
without losing what separates
us—perhaps womanist.
In the end, we might as well
speak for ourselves,
hold the positions
we want,
love ourselves
with wicked glee.
All our words/silences
demonstrate our politics—
our power is in choice.
This position is my position;
I name it with my voice.
Appears in Risk, Courage, and Women 2008 © Demetrice Anntía
Worley
America Declares War on Girls
Bright-eyed newscasters
have long since given
their cheery good nights
when a low moan starts
deep in my throat—a ten-year-old
boy calmly lines up his targets
in the cross hairs: a girl’s body
tumbles into rough cedar chips,
her empty swing kisses its arc;
another girl, laughs turns to touch
her friend’s arm, stumbles over her
black and white sneakers, falls—
a vibration moves along my vocal
cords, down my wind pipe—
seventeen-year-old sweethearts
push aside discarded cardboard,
partially eaten sandwiches, crumpled
newspapers, making room for their
two hour and thirty-seven minute old
daughter before driving his dad’s SUV
to the prom where friends wait
eagerly to pose for a group picture—
the moan fills my stomach, cramps
my intestines; my legs shake—
a fourteen-year-old boy keeps
vigil over a seven-year-old girl’s
stabbed body, hidden under his
waterbed, he grunts a laugh
destroys one dimensional images
of men/women over and over again,
racking up thousands of video game
points—the moan rises in my intestines
into my stomach, throat; I hear/feel
myself screaming—a sixteen-year-old
knocks a nine-year-old girl off her bicycle,
pummels her with rocks. She stops moving.
He pulls her white cotton panties
below her knees, jabs a stick into her vagina.
She moans. He stuffs yellow/brown leaves
in her mouth, stops her voice, her cries, her breath.
Appears in Spoon River Poetry Review 2002 © Demetrice Anntía
Worley
