Daughters Jitterbugging
let yourself drift aimless into another summer, holding
another’s hand, something more than nothing at all
should we get another chance, let us knot our fingers
in a distorted sort of unity as if sacrilege is now holy
I pause upon saying let us twine ourselves much as
the trees do. the vines. the apes. is love such a savage?
such a savage thing to round up all the women of Earth
and have them pray for the sin of loving, let me say this:
I mark myself a sinner, but now I ask you the same in
different wording: what good is it to be a saint? only to
hide from the barrage of ink and kerosene, they say they
mark us spawn of Satan for their own protection but
the mangled cuts on their hands mean their blood and
the ink are mixing into their own stains, their own sin
and so I say: should we get another chance?
if we were to dance just as a body, not two, ignoring
the convention that is our own plurality, are we to mark
ourselves as sin? say this and say it loud, is there no body
without sin, we call ourselves saints howling like madmen
& pride ourselves on our own condemnation. no mother
would wish such a misshapenly daughter as I or as you and
make no mistake, misshapenly meaning we are not concealed
by the cross, misshapenly meaning all we shall do is sing
their own hymns till they mark them as devil songs, and we’ll
still be humming, jitterbugging, pressing our lips together
like some type of modern-day radio.
another’s hand, something more than nothing at all
should we get another chance, let us knot our fingers
in a distorted sort of unity as if sacrilege is now holy
I pause upon saying let us twine ourselves much as
the trees do. the vines. the apes. is love such a savage?
such a savage thing to round up all the women of Earth
and have them pray for the sin of loving, let me say this:
I mark myself a sinner, but now I ask you the same in
different wording: what good is it to be a saint? only to
hide from the barrage of ink and kerosene, they say they
mark us spawn of Satan for their own protection but
the mangled cuts on their hands mean their blood and
the ink are mixing into their own stains, their own sin
and so I say: should we get another chance?
if we were to dance just as a body, not two, ignoring
the convention that is our own plurality, are we to mark
ourselves as sin? say this and say it loud, is there no body
without sin, we call ourselves saints howling like madmen
& pride ourselves on our own condemnation. no mother
would wish such a misshapenly daughter as I or as you and
make no mistake, misshapenly meaning we are not concealed
by the cross, misshapenly meaning all we shall do is sing
their own hymns till they mark them as devil songs, and we’ll
still be humming, jitterbugging, pressing our lips together
like some type of modern-day radio.
May 2024
Ela Kini is a student at Hunter College High School. Her writing has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and the New York Society Library. In her free time, she enjoys playing badminton as well as writing and reading creative fiction.
Art: Datura y Yo by Kat Cervantes