Almost every night uncracks the legend of an ache. The truth is:
I didn’t want to start a poem with night where there should be
a name, but this too is a misgiving—a mortal gamble, that if I am
good enough, I’d live to see another night—the bridge in my ribs
good enough, I’d live to see another night—the bridge in my ribs
collapsed into a boon—living translated into levity. The truth is,
sometimes I want to hear the giggles of a child in the lightning—
sometimes I want to hear the giggles of a child in the lightning—
a rhyme in the roar, something we can all marvel about. I miss my
heart & I miss my heart—a calm where the horses come to rest,
heart & I miss my heart—a calm where the horses come to rest,
a return into its regal. In one myth a black boy offered a beast his
tongue—its hymn & harmonies—hoping it would rewrite hunger
tongue—its hymn & harmonies—hoping it would rewrite hunger
to homily. Some things are not to be said of hunger: imagine how i
fit just dey make I dey get hunger for blood, to siddon in my solemn
fit just dey make I dey get hunger for blood, to siddon in my solemn
& think of a nail driving into a palm, or the horse’s head chopped off
its neck—its body a wet rattle, dying in all the soft place, its visions
its neck—its body a wet rattle, dying in all the soft place, its visions
with it. *No be say I want diz things, nobody want that kind thing sef
but it’s just my heart riddled with something bigger, something dark
but it’s just my heart riddled with something bigger, something dark
enough to hide its gold. I am not what they say I am: the cattle of me
labors, but what does it get in return?—lashes for a surname. To say
labors, but what does it get in return?—lashes for a surname. To say
I sabi grief na to say I sabi my papa’ papa slang—the lilt of a lineage.
I wobble my way into the dark, strapped with a crucifix of wounds—
I wobble my way into the dark, strapped with a crucifix of wounds—
I take to my hands the shreds of my disappointments, mispronounce
my god’s sobriquets—this is not the first time I imagine the dark a lone
my god’s sobriquets—this is not the first time I imagine the dark a lone
chapel, mistaking my shadow on the wall for an angel, wings scraped off
its back. In my mouth, day-old birds shrieking in the dialect of a disaster.
its back. In my mouth, day-old birds shrieking in the dialect of a disaster.
Read on . . .
“All-American Biography,” a poem by Paige Buffington
