Two Micros by Nicole Homer


Motherhood is like being pecked to death
by my favorite birds
made with my body, torn open
by beaks sharpened
on the woman I was
when I slept more or
sang the song I stole
out of my mother’s mouth


But If You are a White Boy, Then My Father was a White Boy, Too.

The only thing I ever did worthy of the word traitor: love you but call you white boy when you weren’t around. As if I selected you from a shelf where all the white boys sat: light haired, light eyed, thin lipped, and interchangeable. I am sorry. I did it more than once. I am sorry. I meant it every time.


“I don’t talk to my family because I rent a studio furnished”