Transformative Prose
Your knowing hands
Will move me in new ways
Push, pull and shape me
Color me with glaze
I arrive to you soft and pliable
You will smooth out my flaws
Give me form that is undeniable
I willingly let you
Sculpt me as you desire
Create me as you see fit
Strengthen me with fire
I surrender to you anew every day
Take me in your knowing hands
I am your clay
Pacing through the night, I feel the tingle of a poem coming on- I imagine this sensation is similar to the prodrome of a herpes outbreak or a migraine aura, though I have been blessed to know neither.
College in the city- classmates were falling in love as I fell into prostitution.
Are you a drug addict? One of my male customers asked me, inquiring as to why I was working in the world’s oldest profession.
No, I’m just a college student- came my honest reply. Perhaps studying is a more expensive habit than drugs, and the result just as ethereal.
My classmate’s parents supported them with a stipend and they complained to me that $600 a month was too little, as they bought booze and cigarettes, mean-mugging the clerk at the Chinatown liquor store to appear old enough, a grungy exterior disguising their trust fund privilege.
My parents sent me nothing but a too-late berating on how I should have asked for money if I needed it after they discovered my unspeakable scandal, which they have not mentioned since- nor did their unearthing of the truth result in financial assistance. I thought that my empty bank account and empty belly spoke for themselves.
On a cold winter’s night, I still hear the howl of those hallowed halls, the tunnels of avenues lined by iconic sky scrapers, indifferent to my frigid body below bent into the wind
With frostbitten feet teetering in heels, dresses so cheap they were nearly disposable, and the most threadbare of coats, I did have fun from time to time- prowling the city like a stray cat, discovering the serenity of late night corporate art as Wall Street slumbered except for a few coked-out, drunk men. Like me, they were lonely.
From time of time I still feel the unloving alcohol in my throat, the tears in my eyes from choking on cocks and the iciness of the night air, the flavorless meals and banal conversations, the false promises to pay me afterward, the faulty checks written, the wads of gritty cash I shoved into my shoes for the long subway ride home.
I spend my evenings dissecting out the lead bullets which you pummel into my chest throughout the day
I gingerly remove the palpable parts of your reckless barrage
Do you intend to hurt me so deeply that I must perform surgery nightly just to keep my sanity?
If I ever had any sanity to lose, that is…
Wisps of breath curl coolly around my open wounds, trying to soothe the painful sting of your attack
I am humbled by how long it takes me to heal from injuries that you were so quick to inflict
Don’t tell me you Kant follow the Golden Rule
That is the universal elixir we are all hoping for
Now I know where the true treasure is
It has been mine all along, my heart of gold
I choose to share it with the world
What will you do with your golden treasure?
Please don’t keep it buried all your life
It is already within you, yours to share whenever you wish
If only I could get this message to you somehow
I’ve sent messages in bottles before
But bottles can lead to ripples
And I’m trying to calm my water
Splash
I’m learning to dodge the lead bullets of your matrix
And melt them into gold
Treating others how you want to be treated
Is a rule that never grows old
Bra-less and lawless
That’s what I am
I solved the problem of my poverty creatively
That’s code-speak for ‘illegally’
Because prostitution
Isn’t recognized by the institution
Ironically, it’s the same men who rule the world
Who pay money to have sex with girls
I’ve jerked off CEOs of international companies
Wildly successful ones that you might support everyday
In our inevitable, consumeristic way Like common street pimps, the government and corporate thugs take the money they want, leaving the rest of us just enough to stay alive so that we keep making them rich off our blood, sweat and tears all the years of our lives We break our backs while their bank accounts grow fat collecting tax
Sometimes I break the law When I was a sex-worker, I limboed around the law by making a living without paying taxes on my wages, unless you count the immeasurable tax of physical and psychological trauma, which like a war within me rages
Sex work was an avenue to do what I could to improve my reality
With a heart of gold: I did it without hurting others, young or old
I even donated some of my hard-won earnings to charity
Robin Hood is a hero to me
Sometimes I let it all hang out and go bra-less
I am a woman in a man’s world (though we’re fighting for our human rights!)
Taking my bra off feels like exhaling, ‘Yes I am!’
Letting my breasts fall forward to where they naturally lay
Feels like the first time I did sex work and got paid
I could finally afford to buy food instead of scavenging through the trash, no more would I dine on the stale leftovers of rats
All I had to do was survive an hour behind closed doors with an asshole rapist it was like any other day, except that I got paid a livable wage
Poverty feels like an uncomfortable bra
That is two sizes too small
It cuts into you and suffocates you
Until there is only one thing left to do, if you can
Break free
I’m not saying that everyone with financial difficulty should find employment through illegal activity, although that seems to be the only option at times
I’m saying that feeling comfortable
In your body, your mind and your life
Is something worth striving for
I hope you feel comfortable in some way every day
Freeing myself from poverty was not quick or easy, Although the lucrativeness of sex work at first made me believe it would be. Sustainable change takes time In the long run, it took a lot of hard, unpaid effort educating myself to reach a place of true comfort; for austere years I lived without many things I wanted because most of all, I wanted to be free I wouldn’t change my journey for anything I am grateful for all that I learned, the profound ways that I healed spiritually and am healing still, the people I met, the goals I accomplished, the places I’ve lived and…
how good it feels to finally come home to myself, to my heart and my body The journey isn’t over, but I know that whatever the future brings, I am ready
…and for the moment, bra-less
Sage Burner Poetry 