by Erica Hunt
How did you get your name?
I am the second daughter of a second daughter—
a second daughter in a luminous loop stitch of girls and women:
who test the rope” and— “sell the shadow to support the substance”—
who push the outer out from out of bounds—
who mime duty to weave the daily bread—
who unthread and rewind at night—burning both ends—
we learned never to turn our backs to them lest they underestimate us—
never let them assume and erase us—
the them that consume and appropriate us—
them that see my body as calculus—
subtract the profit from sacrifice to their unquenchable god—
an ALMIGHTY—dollar—pence—and pound of flesh—
for whom no labor is ever enough—
demanding “can’t see to can’t see”—
rock busting stone busting bone crushing false “god” blind to suffering—
we fashioned hollers and bone calls—
blues and hymns to blunt the toll—
pay bills due for ransom in order that our daughters live—
rise above zero—
and raise daughters who liberate their children’s children from—
a stubborn clay—this catastrophic dust imagined as freedom.
Tell me, again.
How did you get your name?
When my nearest neighbor takes the air on her porch—
eyes closed at rest or prayer—turned inward to her youth—
she resembles my mother restored to an earlier/older self
comfortable in her robe’s faded folds, hair satin scarf-wrapped—
and impossible. I exhale a kiss to her as if she was—
my mother— risen from the rest where she had been waiting death—
just like the rest of us—just that much closer to the door—
she throws an encouraging smile and revives me from unacknowledged slumber—
the way she sees me—helps me to see me—
reassembled and framed—
a specific noun linked to verb—unwavering and named.
Have you ever come across a book that tells you something about yourself that you did not
know?—
Perhaps you meet the gaze—
of a person looking out from the book—a turn of phrase—
a photo, sculpture or canvas—holds your stare—
so that you trip over the seam of uncanny resemblance?
Did you think then—how did they know—
how did they see—how did they find that opening
between the page and the world?
But, how did you get your name?
Answer: I was a child of testing—tests to supply proof of a valued life and
Tests to gauge possible failure.
Tests to check in on the already said and tests to confirm tests as a way of thinking.
There was always a test in which one could have scored higher—to improve upon
luck in a casino simulation of the odds held in the
actuarial table of Black life
living through minus to minus never knowing
where the zero stalks my Black marked bulls eye
even when I didn’t know it—like
when the cab driver said to me—once I got into the car—
“you hailed me as if you were white man,” and then
demanded I leave the car.
Question: what is the Black way of hailing a cab?
How did you get your name?
It may have been a coincidence—but the year the Boss was elected
was also the year we experienced a great variety of mayhem first hand
more than rumored apocalypse handed down by grandparents
or read about in the far away anywhere but here
in our midst the bad enough commenced to bleed—with no end to the end—
precursors of disasters unending undoing
the Boss accelerated failed science to fuel his swagger
multiplied sociopathic ideas to which
we were already susceptible—vulnerable on arrival (VOA)
Disarmed the armor with casually toxic syntax—the Boss was bluster
and seduction—fluent in the language of God’s green acres
pronounced over someone else’s land bucolic and folksy
with an unconcealed evil and brutality for others
intent on harm—the Boss heaped blame on flame—
until flame licked white—racing to the top of self-gain—
the Boss stoked anger at strangers and the flames were easy to fan—
opened a better view for the crowd to watch them burn
“Burn it all down”
the boss was chief fire-master; a paint-thinner and match striker
every surface emblazoned with his persimmon face—eye rolling pageantry
“Burn it all down”
the crowd looked like foot-soldiers in search of the next lynching
fanning outward—any enemy to upend and find comfort in
its them to unstick an us—to force to kiss gravel—finding the power of death
undoing an enemy who shares the same sun—same bottom of the clock
same stick in the eye—same pattern of shadow cast from the feet
same result when breath stops mid
How did you get your name?
And then word came to me that my cousin P
one of the mother trees—toppled—
the forest shook and emptied—
all calendars read—for the time being—
countless—days at a time—shift happened—
my cousin fell out of bed—
dropped to the limit where lungs could still welcome air—
fell and woke up with a knotted tongue
her adult child found her—
took her sigh for her habit of keeping words tucked in her cheek—
took her restraint from taking the bait as consent—her green life
nourished by air, rain, debris—her epiphyte life—
mouthed a silent
call for help shaking the world to its roots—
her undoing unheard until morning
How did you get your name?
The story is told of a girl of whom they said the moles across her face were like stars— beauty
marks or nova scattered across the galaxy—a constellation’s silhouette— goddess’ retreat into
black curtained—eternity—her limbs extended like willows’ drift
toward the bottom of rainfall—visible only half the year and then in
a beauty of extinguished meteorites—exchanging immortality for silence
The story is told of a girl who solved the dilemma of preferring her face over every doll’s
face with their stamped eyebrows, gilt eyelashes and identical lips—
pucker-perched between the promontory of high
cheek bones’ identifiable mask—so that when doll heads nodded yes— no consent
was necessary—our girl learned to—to sit on her hands for yes—
and to swallow for NO
The story is told how Ariadne used her thread—a glissando of tap—
crash of one sonic element into the next—a drawl and sprawl—shimmering cymbal’s
change of direction—confused her pursuers
and hid her tracks—drum beats doubled and tripled stops—starts—variations and patterns—
I decided to tell stories as they are told to me—
not exactly as told—
but as I heard their sharp edges split
throats shaking—and imagining—
a 15 year-old girl telling and hiding
behind rage-cancelling memories—
a fully grown woman who has lived most of her life planted in the walls of her home
and the broken timelines—poetries of jump rope and
hidden grief—
poetries of invisibility—the first time by sitting at the back
of the class and the next time by sitting in the front—
stories that never fit the description of the hero in hiding
or the hero’s unlucky number—but falling in between the—
lines and past her/our possible lives where
—rest—health—bloom are staked
and entangled—waiting to be re-stitched —story reconstructed or
deconstructed or rescued from small talk by a Mood Librarian.
Poem copyright 2023 by Erica Hunt. All rights reserved.
Read more in this issue: Interview | Critical Essay | Writing Prompt