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Lyrics:
I am Isis
look it’s morning
head in the shower
spoon in my mouth
just as I swallow my cereal
my mother comes and knocks me down
tacks a photo to my chest
as she hands me my birth certificate
but it’s ok I say
I was a bad child
I cried
and I asked too many questions
I press my face to the window
I play solitaire
I hold tight to my chair
in case someone pulls my hair
and no one can understand
why I’m still crying
no one can understand
why I’m still crying
I live in Tucson
which is like pee in a swimming pool
I am Isis, mouth full of candy
I dance naked
in the backyard
I ride my bike to the corner store
stop for a soda
but I am always a quarter short
but it’s ok I say
I made a wish today
It’s ok
it won’t always be this way
I press my face to the window
I play solitaire
I hold tight to my chair
in case someone pulls my hair
and no one can understand
why I’m still crying
no one can understand
why I’m still crying
Parents are fighting
dragging each other on the ground
skid marks, dog barks
broken TV, too hot to sleep
divorce, disease,
we move so many times but a home is easy to replace
like a child in a mother’s eyes
like my mothers child, isis
It’s time to go away
my blood on her paper plate
it’s ok you say
as she looks the other way
I am a sore throat
I am the door slammed
the plane lifts off and the plane lands
I smell smoke coming from
the last two rows
I am the kiss goodnight
now you sleep tight
everything will be alright
I press my face to the window
I play solitaire
I hold tight to my chair
in case someone pulls my hair
and no one can understand
why I’m still crying
no one can understand
why I’m still crying
© Essence
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"Work Song" by Mark Levine
My name is Henri. Listen. It’s morning.
I pull my head from my scissors, I pull
the light bulb from my mouth—Boss comes at me
while I’m still blinking.
Pastes the pink slip on my collarbone.
It’s O.K., I say, I was a lazy worker, and I stole.
I wipe my feet on his skullcap on the way out.
I am Henri, mouth full of soda crackers.
I live in Toulouse, which is a piece of cardboard.
Summers the mayors paint it blue, we fish in it.
Winters we skate on it. Children are always
drowning or falling in the cracks. Parents are distraught
but get over it. It’s easy to replace a child.
Like my parents’ child, Henri.
I stuff my hands into my shoes
and I crawl through the snow on all fours.
Animals fear me. I smell so good.
I have two sets of footprints, I confuse the police.
When I reach the highway I unzip my head.
I am a zipper. A paper cut.
I fed myself so many times
through the shredder I am confetti,
I am a ticker-tape parade, I am an astronaut
waving from my convertible at Henri.
Henri from Toulouse, is that you?
Why the unhappy face? I should shoot you
for spoiling my parade. Come on, man,
glue yourself together! You want so much to die
that you don’t want to die.
My name is Henri. I am Toulouse. I am scraps
of bleached parchment, I am the standing militia,
I am a quill, the Red Cross, I am the feather
in my cap, the Hebrew Testament, I am the World Court.
An electric fan blows
beneath my black robe. I am dignity itself.
I am an ice machine.
I am an alp.
I stuff myself in the refrigerator
wrapped in newsprint. With salt in my heart
I stay good for days.
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