Half Girl, Then Elegy
Copyright © 2019 by Omotara James. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 23, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.
Copyright © 2019 by Omotara James. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 23, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.
No one gives a damn about a poem
until they need a poem. The poet
is a poem. My mother is a poem.
Women are poems. Black women
are poems. Black people are poems
who need poems. Black labour is a
poem another person will say they
wrote. Black babies are weeds.
For Madeline
the woman who faked cancer
was the first
to reap the secrets
of your body
her knowing hands
firmly turned
your flesh
into an orchard
—after a photograph by Alvin Baltrop
He looks through the wound of my life like it’s light. So I let him. The last cube of ice. Outside the tray. Where I found him. My lover. Melts atop this brick, as if it’s our last whiskey together. His brown, more fragrant, more dangerous than whiskey. You couldn’t miss him. Nothing lasts. Of promise. Such is the promise of light. Not even day breaks between us. Black joy, cresting over and over the summer sun. Kept a spiral of his hair, in a box, like a favour.