Her Marked Black Body

Cynthia Parker-Ohene

The macabre moon
Once lunged at me
It hisses red
Hangs voyeuristically
Wants me to stand in its balkanized light.

Such a pyretic massacre
Will keep her paralyzed yonder
Black combs and a vexed vulva
Clotted in grimy knurls
For the perilous public.

I figured it out
The amber has been interfered with
No-one will be coming
She will dissolve in rodent grasses
She is not missing.

She is dead.
Yet there is a handsome trail
Of Black crumbs glued in bloodied
quicksand. It is a lunar uprising
Unbound by the neighborhood’s
sinister grama. The moon antiquates time
It is elusive. Such light won’t guard you
So, stand your ground.