You, MK’s You.

 
“There was a pinked thread that connected us.” Mk’s I pulls on her many strings—lifelines—to a becoming-animal, bird—song and flight. Yet the pinked thread also sews her to a lover, rarely beloved, but tongue or cage, an absurd drama staged to convince the I inside her own ribcage of her worst. At any moment pinked, Mk’s’ I blushes before making the You blush deeper for it.
 
Mk’s You—without a tongue to understand its neuroses—parrots speech acts of Shakespeare’s twisted dark lady sonnets, words to lick its wounds with post-modern equivocation to be sure they never heal.  Mk’s I—becoming-animal-becoming I—is rendered blank space and, in turn, addresses blank space.  The roles just sit around in the rot of storied consciousness for eager new actors to perilously step in.
 
“Today I believe in the possibility of love; that is why I endeavor to trace its imperfections, its perversions.” —Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks
 
Which may be why, Mk pushes it back on the ship that brought it.  Which may be why she traces it to its melancholy ends.
 
Bodies along side bodies that make minds question the second-hand rather than scratch petty answers that aren’t—until we bleed. 
 
What will have been this history of us?

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Sharon Coleman's a fifth-generation Northern Californian California with a penchant for languages and their entangled word roots. She writes for Poetry Flash, co-curates the reading series Lyrics & Dirges and co-directs the Berkeley Poetry Festival. She the author of a chapbook of poetry, Half Circle, and a book of micro-fiction, Paris Blinks, that just came out from Paper Press.