open paradox

i am here in the eighth and zoned

for interrogations–the sex of god

informs the prayer, yet only one

bears the deeper purities of hell.

frothing

among the tyranny of blurry eyes and soot,
            am i a withered lake?
my visions, anchored to their haunting,
are meat rotting in the fields.

left anodized and hopeless on the staircase
            to contemplate marrow. is it
the ring of fog around my neck? a fever dream?

truth is the thing

that stares us straight until we fold
            into it.

circling myself, i can’t find an opening.
            only–
a woman’s body, reaped again and again.
immortally bound to play currency for

power.

is wrought survival so sensuous?

the cosmos within my viscera, why

inert bodies crave to rule. yet

beware the holy king, a red

mirage–if anointed, his crown melts,

and his throne becomes a moon

that hides her face.

---

Rachyl Nyoka (she/her) is a highly sensitive, bisexual, biracial Black poet and visual artist from San Diego, California. She holds an M.A. from the California School of Professional Psychology. Her artwork has appeared in The Hopper Magazine. More of her work can be found at www.rachylnyoka.art.