Friday Feature: February Spikener
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February Spikener (they/she) is a Black femme poet from Detroit. She holds a
BA from Wellesley College and an MFA from Randolph College. Spikener self-
describes her work as “feral”: meaning, her work embraces the carnal and violent
qualities of feral animals while reimagining beasthood as well as daughterhood. Ever
inspired by their loved ones, their poems reflect how they navigate through the world
and what it means to love and be loved. Her work has been supported by the
McCormack Writing Center, Sundress Academy of the Arts, The Watering Hole, and
the Stories Matter Foundation, and has been featured in Black Warrior Review, Muzzle
Magazine, Poet Lore, among others. She lives in Chicago.
A HOT THING
The flatirons breathe a heat as familiar
as any mother’s fingers pushing me forward.
I ask, How much is my life worth to you?
I want to pick a fight, sat on a pillow
between her copper knees. I want to
know the ridges of my place, the shape
of my leaving, how sharp the edges of
her grief, if she would slice herself
on them. I am asking if she thinks
my life is a luxury. She is silent, first.
Her hand reaches, pinky ghosting
across the hollow of my throat, lands
on my right pulse. My skin answers
to the touch, chasing after her.
I am almost afraid—
body folded and cornered. Sharp elbow. Curdled
knee. A curl against my forehead. The flatirons
kiss me hotter. The hair gives way to pull. A finger
hooking the mouth. This is how I love you. She
hopes for my children so I may understand. As if
I need a new body to grow and kill. As if I don’t
know what she is incapable of. Do you see what
could have happened, she will say, but we are
here. Abraham staring at Isaac’s back. My life
in her hands as if it was thread. I know her
through palm-pulse, unwinding the spool.
Fingering my fate.
//
The push of her hand tilts me into a dream:
dark face—cracked skin—we rock—gentle sway—face
up—curved spines—the sea—the woman—arched over
me—i search—only parts—my nose—on every woman—my
mouth—on every man—i must be—a child—i must be—a
girl—the man’s feet—sing Evil—in my ears—Evil is the
man—without skin—the shackle; brand—in his hand—arcs
and—the woman’s back splits—dark-maple
skin—matches—the gap—in his teeth—Evil slashes—her
spine—until it’s—the color—of his eye—splayed open—her
arm—over me—Evil parts the hand—from its root—her
eye—is mine—yellowed in fear—Evil faces me—her palm
slides—against mine—i know it—to be mine—i stare—into
the sea—i will drink—around me—hoarse cry—raw
tongue—swollen belly—so full—of loss—it bursts—under
Evil’s boot—the water reaches—her touch—is mine—i
hold—her hand—tumble—into—a world—whose
ground—we never touch
//
did you hear / the horses / run / when Evil came / they followed / the mare / the mother
/ just out / of reach / behind / wire / on knee / did you see / the fear / the bit / the bridle
/ the blood / -shot eye / can you hear / the horses / the screams / the froth / the roll / they jumped / returned / to wild / water / unbroken / cradled us / forever / the water / loud / against / the fallen / forest / apocalyptic / arc / we heard / them come / we heard / the break / the cleave / the green / the red / the dark / the crack / of skin / on ours / we saw / the break / did / you hear / the horses / our pact / to drink / the water / we heard / her call / Come! / Come! / our skin / parted / sprouted / bone / feather /
and then / we flew—
//
She wraps my hair in silk with hands I hope to inherit.
If I gotta see you in some earth, I need to put you there
myself. Can’t nobody take what I made, nobody
but me. In the dream, I sank, cocooned by the wet,
begged for a hand, longing to be curled into her
chest, nose full of her. Only a mother spills a song
into herself. Only a daughter pitches across the watery
veil of her eye. My mother is but a mouth. I am
but her laughter. She turns my head, heel of her palm
digging into my pulse. My heart reaches for her hand.
They call to each other. You are of me. I am from you.
In the mirror, her hand arcs, resolute and jerking. I imagine
my neck, red smile: gaping, crooked. Me, in the end:
held, horizon leaking from my throat. Painted red, covered
in love. This, she says, this is how I keep you. I watch her practice.
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