Aja Bailey



was the blue paper crane my ass squashed when my man propped me on the piano.

It looked serene floating on the black lake reflecting the starry night

made from my man's nutt drips.

A few times it flew off and always landed on the Gb Ab Bb keys

Finger wings on the ivory teeth tasting the flavor of clit.

That’s how it was named.

A theater colleague made it during our translated novels course.

Wonder how long it took them to master the preliminary fold

maybe somewhere within Murakami's weird realm shit.

They're now the other pronoun.

I'm too afraid to ask to wind the bird up to life again.

Don't want to bring back dead identities just to have those

delicate feminine hands to recreate a fancy paper plane.

Thought I'm not fearless to ask for his former pussy.

I would like two please.

Extra lingerie and extra Black lips to shout battle cries to fight

and fuck the patriarchy.



Aja Bailey is a writer and pizza aficionado residing in the panhandle of West Virginia. She earned her BA in English with a concentration in creative writing from Shepherd University. Her work has appeared in Sans Merci, Backbone Mountain Review, and TROU Lit Mag. She likes to write about dreams, semen, and rap music.

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