KanJam

by Alixa Brobbey





When we meet, it is Christmas in Accra but feels like summer.

I wear short sleeves, high skirts; you, sweat-stained white shirts.



We exchange yellow rings in my father’s yard, under a lonely tree.

Its nasal humming haunts the tropical air. We laugh. Because



I cannot catch the flying, yellow disc. No matter how hard I jump,

I never reach your heights by two inches. And mere months



Place your day of candles ahead of mine. We are moon and sun.

Opposite ends of forever’s seesaw. I cannot teach my melanin



To blush under starlight and burn when nervous. Your red hair

Will never grow like mine—in tangled, gravity-defying vines.



So much unspoken in silent handshakes. Questions hang

In the damp air, like ripened mangoes on the brownish stump.



But I don’t like the taste of the bitter fruit. I really don’t like

The taste of the bitter fruit. Don’t like cutting them open.



We cannot play these childish games forever, so elder

Friend, if I bring a knife, will you cut us bite-sized pieces?



We can sit under the tree, trading stories about my scars

And your tasteless lunchtimes in Lone Peak’s shadow.



Teach me how to catch the sun; I’ll confess I wish I loved you.

I am sorry I have nothing to offer but this strange overripe fruit.





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