I am not bloodstained robe,

nor distorted animal mask. Grandma is lying

on the ground, says there is a little girl inside me. I am not

coconut peeled to nurture the dead, the moss-blue

tumble of water, ghost music. The night is choreographed, and we put on

tie-dye skirts, the little girl

and I, copper halves of alloyed desires,

unfurling from generations of lonely women—

and believe me, grandma can revive anything, even demons,

even hallucinations she’s kept alive

in her mind, interpretations of sapphic love

like ebbing waterfronts

sung to sleep by starlight. I am not bruise. Not proverbial maiden

swinging an oil lamp, though love brings me

knocking on your door: open—

yes, you, little girl, open the door to your heart,

let the pleasure of a thousand women sway you like the drums

of Oshun, the poetry of painted corals

clattering on your marbled hip,

let the water infuse your tenderness,

the sea goddess holding you up

against the moonlight.