Because that woman’s eyes are old,
I write about the second engraved
In each line. How her lover’s hands
Are being loved by someone else’s
Quiet words. How the world explodes
At two, pieces itself back at four.
How my father’s pain is still with me.
How much I understand that pain of having
Too much pain. Of forgetting the day
In drink-to-get-over the clock drama
Of tying on our shoes. That the air
And mountains are streaming in our ear:
Enivrez-vous, enivrez-vous sans cesse….
If I’ve heard these hurls in the wilds
Of Africa, in the clicking of each silver
Spoon, it is because like you, I have sat
At the foot of many dawns. Like you,
The Blues is the numbness of my teeth,
My mother’s threats of never growing
Into something straight because I devoted
Myself to the pursuit of my right hand.
Because glitter sizzles more in damp places
And the hollering of yesterday being swept
Away, holds more of us then the gods
Who see and write the salvation beaming
Miles away, when we are right here.
Copyright © 2021 Maryama Antoine. All Rights Reserved.
