There’s a man walking through my poem,
and suddenly, he is surrounded by brown women’s
bodies that make no space for him. Their breasts are as full
as their hearts, the dark hairs on their stomach thrive
and grow in the presence of his discomfort.
You cannot blame a poet for what the people in her poem
do and these voices are haunted by the things
they have never said. They have been feeding
fear for years rather than their own need for
language and now they cannot stop
speaking and truths will not stop
thundering. Why don’t you try to feel something with us?
They screech at him rolling their hips to a music he
cannot keep up with. No, there is no way I can write
enough about these brown women that walk through his city
which can never grow big enough to satisfy. And I won’t lie it is
delightful to see how much they petrify, how comically
he tries to pacify. You see you cannot blame a poet
for what the people in her poem do, and these women,
they are chanting a fevered realisation, they are going to
eat him alive.
1 November 2017