While Reading “Sula”
I realized I was Nel and wept
for the robins rotting inside me. I had not bore snakes
or roses made of cinders. I rose from bed
bored, snaking my way beneath
ashen men child-hungry
and respectful to thieves. I refused to fuck
because I was no votive. Why should I burn
while a man mumbled
Christ—scared, above me?
