a transcription of the poem read on the home page of this issue
by Tawanda Mulalu
Everything I like is like that man who first thought to take that picture of that starving black child waited for by that black vulture in that Sudan. I like what I write. I’m hurting myself by liking things. My words are maybe taking pictures of myself starving me. I tell myself stories in order to clutch my throat. My throat is clutched. Please make me pretty, I don’t want to die. I want to sleep now. I know I am holding this so tightly with sleep. I know I am screaming towards this with my sleeping. People are not asking of us because they are busy. I am not asking of us because I am simulating being busy. What should we ask of in a world whose only word is work? This is the best deal. This is the unasked-for gift. If I saw a starving black child, my first thought would not be to take this picture of myself. Or wake. Everyone is dying. There are such pretty words for this.
Poem copyright 2022 by Tawanda Mulalu. All rights reserved.
See more poems from Tawanda Mulalu: “Child,” “Dal Niente,” “Sheffield,” and “Libido”
Read more in this issue: Interview | Critical Essay | Writing Prompt