B is for…

B is for boobies;

for free the nipple activists

and

breastfeeding in public

and

YesAllWomen

and

having a flat chest until you’re

21

or having double Ds

at the age of 11.

Blooming

late or

blooming early

Or blooming small and beautiful and bright.

boys snapping bra straps

and girls being embarrassed

to shake or show or

glow what their mamas gave em.

B is for boobies,

Because the word “breast”

Reminds me of cancer

And

awkward anatomy classes

And chicken cutlets at dinner time.

B is for boobies,

For lacey bras

And sexy bandeaus

And taking them off the second you walk through your door

At the end of a long day,

Feeling free,

And feeling more like yourself than you have

Since the night before

When you slept butt ass naked.

Wild

Sexy

Beautiful

Free.

The After

For five and half years, I was silent. Didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t find the words. Knew that, if I found the words, if I reported what happened, no consequences would occur for the perpetrator responsible. But I lived. I grew. I gained intellect and strength and finally found my beauty again. It doesn’t really end, once it’s over. (…) There are still days when  the monster  wakes” — but I am here. I am stronger than my past. I am greater than my present. And I am leaping boldly into my future, banishing shame, proclaiming love, and giving a voice to those who have been silenced. Rape is not a joke. This is the story of THE AFTER.

Monster

It’s cold in my fingertips,

then burning all over,

like electrifying radiation

and I can’t control it and

it’s racing through my veins like

water under bridges and

it’s lit in my chest like spark plugs sparked

and the monster isn’t solid and it’s

moving through my bones and

it’s smiling that smile that makes my body

calm.

And it plucks out my eyes and puts in its own

and I am no longer in control of myself.

No longer my choices.

I’m possessed by the demon he created there

and the alcohol I use to quell it.

the after

stuck in the mud, in the muck of the swamp, with no escape from the slime hidden deep deep down, in the bones of the creatures residing there.

stuck in the tar, in the wet hot cement, while it’s drying and im crying but no sound comes out.

stuck in sky, in the starless abyss, where the moon is asleep and the sun is away and the breathing of the monsters is the echoing song.

In Stardust

Before I met you,

I was a bird. And my wings

were strong

and my feet were quick

and my feathers were lustrous and steady.

–

Before I met you,

I was the moon. And my glow

was radiant,

and my core was resolute,

and my crescent was sharp and smooth to the touch.

–

Before I met you,

I was a seed. And my roots

were rugged

and my stems were tenacious

and my leaves were monumentally green and growing.

–

But you weren’t here to feed me,

to water my soil or please me.

I didn’t realize I was kindling,

meat stacked on bone,

a body to own, to torture and

contain and enslave.

–

And when you left,

I became a drop in the ocean,

another tear cried,

another storm waged,

another tidal wave erupted,

another spritz of salty mist in the air.

–

And after,

I sewed together

mist and glow and root and feather

and twisted it in bloody muscle,

tied it in smoke and flames,

and cased it all in a taut skin of mica,

more powerful than you could have ever imagined.

–

I felt what it was like to breathe again.

Set the air on fire again.

–

I am a bird, a phoenix rising,

I am a tree, a willow singing.

I am the moon, reborn in blood,

in stardust everlasting.

–

I was. I am. I will be.

Everlasting.

Take This Body (written by SLD, Teagan Walsh-Davis, and JW Basilo)

I have a question — at what point am I allowed to love myself?

At what point am I allowed to say

yes, I know I’m not supposed to,

yes I have suffered enough, yes I know you prefer me a little bit broken

so I’m easier to swallow

but I know the ugly that can be foisted upon me,

force-fed like foie gras

and still

I love my tough skinned feet that never blister,

the collarbones jutting like a warning,

my steadfast march to answer the bell,

the days I could level a skyscraper with just my fist

and all this goddamn beauty.

This world is inhospitable to that kind of joy,

to the victory won by ceasing to fight.

Don’t be afraid of my beauty,

it isn’t about you.

You can tell me that I’m radiant, that I’m sexy, that my body is perfect –

it isn’t.

But, take this body, and the way its thighs curve,

the way they touch,

the way they melt over battle-scarred knees.

Take this body when air-drying after a bath,

watching the drops hold their positions

like tiny soldiers made of predawn dew.

Take this body when it is all stop, all quit, all uuuugggghhhh.

Take this body when I am too cool for sunblock and wrapped in red death.

Take this body when I sing to quiet the monster inside, to let the light win for a little while.

Take this body and the unabashed greatness of its laugh.

Take this body when my hair is unkempt,

with cowlicks and wild wisps of unintentional bangs.

Take this body when it tears up the stairs to reach the platform before the train pulls away,

the Devil’s kiss in my calves, the pinprick holes in my lungs.

Take this body

pock marked and tiger stretched, hairy and goose fleshed,

roll it inside your endless fingers

and lay your head upon the plush, fleshy bits of my stomach,

like halle-fucking-lujah, we are still alive!

It isn’t magic,

but it’s what I got.

———————————————————————————————————————-

This piece was a collaboration – co-written for a slam poetry show opening this October in Chicago, IL.

If you are in the Chicago area, come see “Handsome Animals” written and performed by the Chicago Slam Works House Ensemble — I promise, you poetry lovers will not be disappointed.

Much love, as always.

There is no definite in medicine or treatments, no complete cure for physical ailments. But the one thing that is always there for us, the one thing that is always sure to cure the most important part of us, is love.

my joy

inside, my body tick tocks with the clocks of my ancestors’ sacrifices — to the oppressors and the haters, from then up til now. but it also chimes with the strength of my mother and the lessons from my father, and the love that falls in between.

exchange

so many voices

muddle +

sway +

battle for attention

in this

foreign land of finance

in this melting pot of backgrounds

in this

classroom full of students just

pining for acceptance.

I almost said, “Hello.” // poem by Jessica Lauren Yuppa

I want to say hello

But it’s 1 am and you aren’t home

That light burned out

Some time ago

How do I unlove?

Your turn to turn away

I was told not to make homes

Of humans

The stoicism for which I was condemned

You wear with honor, now

But I see your quivering heart.

Was not, was it?

Was it, was not.

We and you and I and us and he and she who cannot be

And, I guess, never were

I want to say hello

But it’s 1 am and you aren’t home

That light burned out

Some time ago

How do I unlove?

My turn to turn away

I was told not to make homes of humans

Though I never thought I’d live

To see my own ghost