that's what my mother
called me as i was growing up.
literally, up.
up and up and up further and further skywards
like i couldn't stop.
towering, strong. dark hair and white skin
and strong white arms made to hold and fight and hate -
the last of the amazons.
and maybe my mother hated me as i crumpled,
as i fell, as the sky turned gray and eyes-downcast
and pressed me back towards the ground, back into myself.
i am not like the amazons not like the ships
and the wide seas they sailed, not like the strong tall brown women.
and amazons are not supposed to
drown in the taste of chocolate almonds and desire
or get swept away by boy-eyes and gardenias
and the scent of asphalt late in summernights.
and amazons are supposed to cut off a breast
the better to hold their bows and send arrows
singing towards the enemy, but mine are soft
and warm and heavy and made for a man to cup them in his hands.
