This is a poem that destroys.
It will not claim to be living.
just. a poem. Or is it?
You want it to be more.
You want it to tell you that you are right.
You want it to tell you that you are important.
You want the structure of this poem to make you feel safe.
But This Poem Will Not Tell You That Your Mother Loves You.
It will not confirm whether the God
that she taught you to worship is Real
This is a poem that kills message.
It absolutely slaughters
It fucking laughs at analysis.
But you will try to analyze it anyway.
And when this poem will not budge,
you will look to its author to determine
You will learn that she subscribes
to a basic form of Womanism
and that she has penchant for
and you will wonder if, perhaps,
her poetry reflects these sentiments of hers.
You will look very hard at this poem,
and you will dissect its images
with the same narrow focus
you were taught to bring
to your interpretation
of The Red Wheelbarrow.
This poem will not mock you for it.
Because this poem does not judge.
The only thing that this poem does
Michelle Everette is “that scary Womanist bitch.”
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