By A. M. Rossiter
I was plucked from my home and
hurled
to a time where we learnt to be gods.
I walked in the street and I couldn’t tell who was
human, anymore. I spent a week – like a vacation
in the midst of these beings
floating on the fizz, crackle pop of power,
the clouds were willed by their hopes and desires
there was never lighting, unruly, in their skies.
I asked to be a
god
too - but it came with a price.
I sucked on the last morsel of humanity’s
weakness
and woman was the last word to go.
And the label we cast on our people, that slapped
and beat us with assumptions
like spikes on a club, rusting nails in our palms,
melted into the earth
and I was taught how to fly.
I couldn’t take the flight with me
when I returned to my life.
My skin felt ten times heavier,
cracked and dry - and I knew why
men cried in the quiet of their cars
and women hid their anger in tears –
we feared - for the words we both said
and kept secret. It kept our feet on this angry,
bloating soil, and our skies were empty
except for the shrill shriek of yellow
in the dark.