poetry

A MASTER OF FATE . . . CAPTAIN OF MY SOUL

By D-Davis

i. (a mirror cracks)
their brilliance too loud—
my beauty dressed in soft
shapeless, round, thin skin
with too many thoughts.
a house of money language
silencing my second tongue
mistaking quiet for ignorance
weight for waste
mind for nothing worth mining.
tried to be a daughter
a little girl in pastel
but always a thunderstorm in lavender—
half-boy, half-dream
named 'two spirit' girl.

ii. (unseen echoes of the family table)
raised glasses to promotions
to “success” 
to what neighbors thought
but no one toasted the mind;
ideas—uninvited guests—drowned 
in gravy and selfish gossip.
retorts dismissed as overthinking
silence mistaken for sulking
writing called nothing.
the art of being invisible
the science of shrinking—
swallows insults whole
as the throat forgets to sing.

iii. (a single heartbeat of body and illness)
as cells staged their own rebellion
pain moved like a permanent tenant—
rent-free, loud, merciless
body—a house I never chose—
leaking its secrets through the skin
while doctors stared through me 
like I was smoke or a prop.
onstage girls pointed tongues
friends faded into pixels
reflection became a rumor
too painful to chase.

iv. (leaving to a drumbeat)
riding the rails at fifteen—
no note 
no apology
journals in a backpack
hungering, grieving
outgrown pain 
what could have been life.
in the back rows of buses,
cold stages of half-lit theaters
trembling hands of people—
like-minded 
too much and not enough.
We live in the spirit 
of unmistaken light—
not as mess
not lost
but flying—
above the sky.
 
v. (becoming a breath)
I am not a product of pity.
I am the architect of becoming.
my body breaks
the voice—endures
call me what you will:
girl, ghost, heretic—inured
I am all of them 
and none of them
to master fate
and captain my soul.

Raven and I

hand in hand remove our public masks, but the other Raven slips out of doc martins in scrap metal doorways; they are a fan of underbelly crowds, flowing applause on cement pathways spinning sounds that afford access to theatres of moneyed benefactors. I let Raven sport their dangerous mixes sounding off ambition, grinding dark goth scenarios, and write my script about the other side of growing up in suburban. Ours is a tense relationship, a ying and yang, each dancing across a stage; I, wanting rainbows to color my black and white life, while they slither out of Eden and sway from daredevil chandeliers.

Raven lives for late-night clubs under lipstick red lights, and the thrill of dangerous thoughts; adoring chic heeled laughter piercing the air like glass crashing. I on the other hand live for writing workshops and ballroom dances with a day’s happy ending cooking gourmet dinners for two. Once, I tried to escape and listen to Raven’s dark loud orbit drowning out my pulse.

For years I survived Raven’s anti Lilith grinding grunge of sharp fender strings churning femme possibilities that I was told could never be touched. Forgive her grand theatrics; she thinks herself an artist. I think it’s true she penned most of this, but I’m unsure— I sit in her shadow, just a line-break away from my spotlight daydreams hoping to fill fountain penned journals.

This other Raven dreams of limelight and hailstorms, with her face reflected and refracted in stage hall mirrors, while I pore over the ink of Letters to a Young Poet, Metamorphosis, or Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Dynamic though they are, queen of an entrance, they’ve got that soft spot for corners in literati dive bars. Their broken dreams, like smudged mascara, leave marks like smoke on a blank night for empty walls. See what I mean?

Raven, never much for stillness, left behind quiet nights and happy ending bedtime stories in her high school daze. Admit their charisma, and you’ll have an ally forever. They’ll send you roses from their dressing room (possibly true), and though she never learned to play the drums to bang through a tune, her soundtrack spins like an all-night DJ behind their mask; and while she lives on stage, year-round, in the theater of self-renewal, I remain their playwright.

Navigating

A girl . . standing . . . on the sidelines . . . watching a parade . . . of family . . . a celebration of sorts
Sunday evening . . . after church . . . weekly ritual of gathering . . . those that belong . . . as opposed to those who do not
Women . . . fixed . . . in-between . . . sharing . . . dreaming . . . and watching
Do they see the little girl standing on the sideline?
Can they hear her thoughts?
She sees them . . . notices cat rimmed glasses . . . the a-line skirt . . . uncomfortable curves shifting . . . in preoccupation . . . small dialogues . . . interchanging ideas of smallness . . . small talk . . . nothing important beyond that moment
They look past the girl . . . speak to someone else . . . feel for themselves . . . in selfish pursuit . . . feigning empathy for the world . . . the girl watches . . . realizing her otherness . . . standing . . . alone . . . unafraid . . . recognizing the materialism in trying to defy nature . . . navigating its eclipse . . . feeling confident
She watches life . . . then integrates into it . . . taking a step forward . . . her momentous moment . . . transitioning . . . a single synchronicity . . . in alignment forward . . . in time . . . moving toward a future . . . telling a story . . . her story . . . a waxing . . . or waning . . . a wanting . . . as the moment of a reckoning passes.

The Root of It 

Whispers speak of secrets
Mentioned ... not to be heard
But traveling down the ear
Through a secret thread meant to hurt,
A judgment in pointed words
Pushing their narcissus
with delusion at its root
Refusing to claim any guilt.

Their chin-wag venomous
Digs, push false confines, in  
Name of righteous art, as
Their toads kill ingenuity
With calculated turmoil
In nicknamed allyship,
denying their bigoted
Fear-based duplicitous gossip.

Lies they tell themselves lace
Targeted darts, stabbing
Deep to censure voices
Deemed as enemies of their truth.
Denial is easier
Then facing forgiveness,
So, they lift misaligned swords
Thrusting in righteous defenses.

Quietly, while my pain
Fought understanding, and
Aimed to be understood,
I saw their skewed injurious courts,
Guised as collaborators
loathing artist otherness
As roots they denied in themselves.

The continued hush-hush
Whisperings inure that pain
In opaque gloss veneers
That cannot be breeched, making me 
More resolved in transforming
the ossified rootless truths
into grace with enough-as
enough postures to raze the root of it.