The Poet X – WINNER OF THE CILIP CARNEGIE MEDAL 2019

I look and feel like a myth.

A story distorted, waiting for others to stop

and stare.

Tight curls that spring like fireworks

out of my scalp. A full mouth pressed hard

like a razor’s edge. Lashes that are too long

so they make me almost pretty.

If Medusa

was Dominican and had a daughter, she might

wonder at this curse. At how her blood

is always becoming some fake hero’s mission.

Something to be slayed, conquered.

If I was her kid, Medusa would tell me her secrets:

how it is that her looks stop men

in their tracks why they still keep on coming.

How she outmaneuvers them when they do.

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