by Sojourner Ahebee, 18
Interlochen Arts Academy, Interlochen, Michigan
there’s a dead jefferson in every black girl’s belly,
an unknown hunger for something stolen.
i found a poem in these parts, in the belly of a black girl.
i was told to look in the garage,
into the person i almost liked,
at the bottom of an odd blue sock buried
in my dresser drawer:
the hiding places of my life.
oh, but if you only knew
the way I wanted to love the dead president,
rescue him from the depths of a stomach,
feed him the warm soil from a Virginia plantation,
feed him pages from my history books,
heavy with lies.
but then i heard Sally scream,
and wondered what she’d think of me,
i heard Sally scream
and wondered what all the black girls
with bloated bellies would think of me
in my confusion:
the way i mistaked his breath, smelling of lavender and france,
when this scent was made of more potent stuff,
of a black girl’s blood against white sheets.
i went looking for a poem
in the darkness,
a love poem for Sally,
a dead man haunting the hallways
of a breaking girl.
Written in Response to Naomi Shihab Nye’s “Valentine for Ernest Mann”