Spring 2020 Contest Runner Up in Poetry: Starr Davis

By Starr Davis

86 Days
 
My sister climbed into bed with me, her body is full of milk and water and a baby inside her stomach that she doesn’t want.
 
She is 17, and I am 14 and baby is 86 days of fluid and fantasy
 
Next to me, her breasts are soggy with milk we won’t drink tomorrow, she tells me how she
can’t wait for the moon to die
 
the next day she gives me the ultrasound picture, it’s the only picture of god that I own
 
What did they do with the baby, did they toss it out into the sea?
 
The milk inside her breast hardens to sand; I want to cut her open just to make a castle
 
My sister climbed into bed with me, we both dream we are on the beach with dead fish, washing up on the shore

Home
For Trayvon
 
I remember kissing a black boy I didn’t know
that tasteless, winter day
 
His mouth, warm with smoke and eyes so low
with fear
 
We all heard about the boy in the hoodie
But we heard about boys before, and
 
We wanted to feel alive, for as long as the world
says we can
 
His body, the closest place to home that I can go, he entered me
Like a sinner enters a church
 
He is the first black boy I have seen today, in a hoodie    this
becomes a love language
 
I don’t remember his name, but I called him baby
when he kissed my collarbone
 
Kiss me hard, he says, until you see rainbows




About the author:

Starr Davis is a poet, playwright and professional writer whose work has been featured in multiple literary magazines such as The Rumpus, Cosmonauts Avenue, and Transition Magazine. An MFA graduate from City College of New York, her monologues, poetry, and short stories have awarded her literary fellowships such as The Brooklyn Poets Fellowship, Slice Literary Conference Fellowship, and The Eckerd College Scholarship. She currently lives in the Bronx, NY. Find her on Instagram at poetess1, Twitter at _starrdavis, or Facebook at starr.davis.9.