(uno)
May your subconscious sleep-
self conjure me in nightmares.
No brujería and no poisoned fruit
necessary: terror is my name
scratched into your skin, your fingers
digging for me in barren soil.
The mercy of morning
cannot save you from my scars.

(dos)
I am dried pottery cracking
in your hands and you, running rich
with clay, still refuse to smooth
my fractures. Selfish
with healing, selfish with love.
May you find no relief in being whole
when the women who loved
you find themselves in shards.

(tres)
My throat thirsts
and I am searching for rivers
in which to be baptized. Unlike you
I am not afraid of drowning;
I long ago learned to swim. May your fate
be to watch us, we bold women
in water, yearning yet unable to reach
as we are carried away by waves.

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Contributor Notes

Ariana C. Torres is a student at Hollins University whose passion lies at the intersection of literature and liberation. She is dedicated to prioritizing queer black womanhood in her life and her writing.