Leveler Poetry Journal
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Beyoncé is Sorry for What She Won’t Feel


The Capital’s so icy, I see my

perfect breath. It looks like a body

on its knees. Most days I strut

my figure on lock. A Nation

of Weaves assembles at my

Jimmy Choos, gazes into green light

and falls asleep. First Lady of desire,

I pant for our future. Like America

and wine, I am all legs. A sheepskin

bleached and dyed, left in the sun.

Dear Sunday you are a rash like

tresses falling to shoulders, pink

highlights humming the sky

like a tease. How do you feel

in moonrise, the stomach-growl

of life slowly closing? Do you wonder

about escape, the blank, quiet frontier?

I mouth Free and Home into a crowd

but they only hear gold extensions.

I listen for prophecies

from my daughter’s sticky mouth.

While I pick her hair, she cries.

I say, Never give them

what they want, when they want it.

Morgan Parker