my Grammy taught me right
from conception, her voice
iron & honey in my bones
endless like the alto line
of a Zion Convection Choir
full & bodied, darker than
than the mouth of the sea
When you face your Goliath, don’t take no soft rock to he armor
get ya paring knife ann learn how to twis’ & jick it in,
she guiding my hand as
I moved the blade into
hog flesh, so pink it reminded me
of the conch shell shattered and cut
to make these cemi:
seahorse, turtle shell,
sliced belly of the coconut
for bowl and bell-house,
higuaca feathers,
tongues of the rising
sun, hanging
on my unworthy neck.
since then, every time I lift
my macana, conch tooth
blade, in praise of violence,
to jook a man trying to add
my dismembered body to a
garbage can, a room too small
to hold, my light, while I sing,
words of incrimination, the only
laudable salvation for sissies
in these riotous times.
I think of the pig’s body
I cut to spite my
Queer soul
warm and
bleeding
Out.
Ide Amari Thompson (he/they) is a Black and Queer Caribbean writer from Nassau, Bahamas. They are a UMass Amherst MFA alum and an MA-PhD student at Penn State. Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in Caribbean Quarterly, SX Salon, Prairie Schooner, and Poetry, among other places.
