Child Play Real World
What is it to be made of this custom:
when rivers braid umbilical cords
between lovers when one is
married and with kids? Child play,
go on eat dirt. It tastes like
dry pecan pie, it’ll scrape out
any voice you ever had. How
do we explain some mothers
run like wolves with a pack
of men behind their tail?
Child don’t worry they won’t
bite you, each wolf will
lick your ear wrap gold around
your wrist in hopes you’ll breathe
acceptance into their ear
after your father has left since
his braided cord is cut and
hummingbird whispers in
the wind are his only way to
say hello and goodbye. Child,
go on play mommy and see
how easy it is to entertain other
golden ringed pollen bees.
Orlinda Pacheco is an MFA Candidate at Cal State University, San Bernardino whose poetry embraces the tongue, plunges words with her lips into your sex, and meshes the sacred and profane. Her poetic moans grope at the reality of infertility and expand the walls of being female. Her work has appeared in the Pacific Review and Quake Song: New Voices of Southern California and forthcoming in Badlands Literary Journal. She currently resides in Apple Valley.
Inlandia: A Literary Journey 