Jalisa Ifádùńní Orellana Hardy

2 poems

puberty 

a machete grew where my tongue used to be

a bear trap blossomed between my legs

i sprouted 6 feet taller,

underground. 

ears turned mushrooms

to feel the breath of the Earth.

learned the secrets of gods. 

fasted for 14 days,

bled for 40.

my heart, 

a cricket’s chirping

ricocheting off morning dew.

the water always kept my secrets.

fingers webbed to stop from drowning

feet cinderblocked to make sure i did.

i could smell which way was east.

couldn’t taste anything but salt.

became a mirror, 

shattered by their spectrophobia.

so many sets of 7 years,

their descendants will inherit them.

my blood turned to mercury.

my tears turned to lava.

you could not touch me without being singed.

conjuwoman 

cause i’m making me up as i go 

crystallized out of thick air

i’m a sweetness, 

a ginger stalactite

too ancient to touch without harming

i don’t want to kill anything

with kindness,

but with the spice of a clove

the burn of dry ice

everything you ignore grows skin

a lung,

two legs, 

until you learn to hug it

tightly enough

to melt

i am what happens in the silence

meant to be a scream.

i am the gush of saliva

from a bitten tongue.

justice crawls its way out of my throat,

leaving my tongue rancid

and so sharp, 

it cuts me,too.

and there i am,

conjuwoman, 

sculpted even better.