Cento for Surrender

By RAGE HEZEKIAH

Nostalgia is a well- 
intentioned wound, 
you have to hold 
it in mind all at once—
you have to need it 
enough. I’ve been
running from what 
needs me. Perhaps 
we are not responsible 
for the lives of our 
parents. We become 
a beautiful collection 
of knots trembling 
on the floor. Why 
should we mourn?
Isn’t this the history 
we want, one in which 
we survive? Mold me
daily into a bridge
between what I have 
forgotten and what 
I owe. My throat 
is full of low country, 
but here is a world
where the people 
I love gather in small 
rooms with not enough 
chairs. What I remember 
is everything, but I
know that can’t be.

 

Rage Hezekiah is a Cave Canem, MacDowell, and Ragdale Fellow who earned her MFA from Emerson College. She is the author of Unslakable and Stray Harbor. Rage expresses gratitude to the following poets for the use of their lines: Clint Smith, Joanna Klink, Karisma Price, Claudia Rankine, Morgan Parker, Diana Khoi Nguyen, Aaron Coleman, and Hieu Minh Nguyen. You can find out more about her writing at RageHezekiah.com.

[Purchase Issue 21 here.]

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Cento for Surrender

Related Posts

coffee with a spoon

If It Wasn’t for Heroin

AMIYA MORETTA
My Umatilla grandfather / who had one leg, lived down the road, / hobbled to her heroin loyally. / That’s how / my mom and dad, neighbors whose parents / were good friends and fellow addicts, / met as kids, played together / on Frieda Street, those mornings

At night my soul leaves 

KAREN CHASE
up it goes into the stars, for / sustenance. I open / my eyes and pray— / You have returned within me, my / soul with compassion. / Modah ani lefaneka melechai / chai vekayam shehehezarta // I get out of bed, / join the revolution. 

Image of a wooden horse

Trojan Horse

M. B. MCLATCHEY
 It was a gold-seal ruse. A double-/ dealing so sublime the gods ordained / it. Settled into their stadium seats, / they wagered on their favorites. Helen, / the imposter bride, circling and circling  / the gifted horse. / Her Central Casting / lines to the shadows inside.