ZANE MARTY
Prayer I
Lord—who may be the Leviathan
of mystery, the jargon
of lost sheep, cheesecake
on the thighs of a 600-pound woman
or the vulva gulping the phallus—
I am lit by your jealousy.
And feeling faithless
as I am, I don’t wish to ask for too
much, but I must:
Give me this day
a vineyard full of grapes,
a burning bush, winged sandals,
more cheesecake and
a bong. Lord, how I need
a bong—a big, blue, see-thru bong
whose spirits kick up a fuss
in honor of you.
Pledge
I, Zane Marty, hereby pledge
my tongue to my sisters––
the ones who are love-beaten,
the ones who belt speechless songs,
the ones who are Godless
in their howling.
Light sheds no comfort for them.
God created trees to inhale
monoxide and exhale oxygen.
But the trees that surrounds us,
my sisters, that is,
the culture we are bred in,
was created to inhale the feminine
energy and exhale misogyny.
We scare them, my sisters––
our woman-scent, our tribal yells,
our grit, our grace, our womb.
Without us they suffocate.
We are that powerful,
my sisters. Misogyny was created
to siphon our power.
To this, we must testify.
We must reclaim our Majesty,
fuel and flame our fantasies,
create our own destiny.
I see us, my sisters, I see us tuning
our pianos, stringing our guitars,
hearts reaching towards God.
I see us picking thorns out each other’s flesh,
crushing the grapes of our weeping,
standing tall in our brilliance.
I see anger, my sisters.
I see our fists shake the heavens
in anger––because
anger is righteous.
Anger ain’t the same as bitterness,
ain’t the same as unforgiveness,
ain’t something we can bypass
when we peel the gauge off an open
wound––a wound
that daggered our bodies, slit
our throats; a wound we did nothing,
could have done nothing
to deserve. I see us, my sisters,
I see us knowing, I see us believing,
that scars make a powerful witness,
that silence clot arteries.
Zane Marty is a poet and performer born and raised Los Angeles, California. She earned an MFA in Poetry from Syracuse University. She is influenced by folklore, comedy, biblical jargon and the spoken word. Her poems are made up of refusals and dismantlings, prayer and profanity, the bestowing of praise and the contesting of forgiveness. When she is not too shy, she huffs and puffs. And she can, indeed, blow your mother-loving house down.
