Sestina for my sisters
Poetry by Amanda GormanThe stones come to dance; parachuting up, four
black rocks gasp slowly for air like fish in a daze.
My feet dart ripples in the water, cool and neat
as knives. Wind aching to peel down my pant-
ies. It sings my skirt off my skin, ripped in fishbone-two.
It wants inside me, the Black Girl Reading by the River. And I may just be the Black Girl…
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