Delilah
—after Gerrit van Honthorst’s “Samson and Delilah,” c. 1621
They’ve made a monster of me, marring my namefor eternity. I’m not Delilah,but Laila. I loved
him. Each night, in bed,
after our bodies became one body,
he would succumb to sleep, resting his manein my lap. Dream
-starved, I’d wind his black locks,
their feathered curls, as if he were a birdwho flew by means of his hair. How heavy
and tender we were, not like the jawboneof the ass he raised
against my family,
mowing us down like grass. He was weary
of killing, the riddles, the deception.In the end, his sight
narrowed to me.
I was no slut. I helped us wing free.
Terminal Hair
For you out me as animal, wolf risingwith the moon and by morning, pepper
and salt my cheeks, for youflare beneath my arms your fragrant
fire—woven pubic neststhe scent…
You're reading a preview of
The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, May/June 2022