“We spoke completely different languages with different pronunciations and letters. I could tell him how much I want to hold him under the stars. I could tell him how much I love the universe in his eyes and the constellations in his veins, but I put it in terms he could understand as he got in the car to pick up his lover; “Be safe.”. “
my father likes to tell a story from his military school days: something about a dozen guns atop outstretched arms and the hot, hot sun.
this is not a proud story. it is not a story full of moxie, or spunk, or the next new chin-buck-up. because after half an hour in the hot, hot sun and his hot, hot uniform, my father swoons to the concrete all the softness they tried to muscle out of him.
my father laughs when he tells this story. it ends in slapstick, icy water and relief bucketed across his face, a gruff pat on the back.
i am trying not to be soft. i am fighting to keep my eyes open until the story ends. i am not my father, but i am tired.
our hearts are hoarse with the same honey-fire and we’re certain no one can hear the screaming under all the skin and skeleton.
They crucified Jesus Christ, sold Marcus Garvey for rights, shot Malcolm X in the chest, gave Nelson Mandela life. Pac died at 25, Biggie died a year younger, all my life been broke, I’m motivated by my hunger. Told my mama bury me with a 3-57, just in case God trippin’ and I don’t get into heaven.
You write to the boy with broken wings. You write about the hero he was before he was anything, you write him love poems true, with the divine light that is affection. He crumples, four sheets later your words line the desk with his rejection.
All birds have wings. Counter—not all birds can fly.
You write about a warrior, but soldiers slop through retched fogs, prisons of narrow light, static noise. Six verses of I Love You six verses of I’m Yours light the vigil of soft eyes in corridors light the hum and the night-time desk, the words you keep scribbling as he draws away.
The hero he was— who you want to be.
Floors washed through and bitter, you check the turning of the page, light as dim as stars and brittle among murky rows of sick cell shades, he flutters to the ground, lies in crumpled sheets, you change your tone— I Missed You. Soft lettering, sincere as life and caught deftly in the undertones. What is dripping is the lamplight outside the window bars. He doesn’t write back.
Do you think he remembers? Counter—he remembers all the time.
I kind of really enjoy doing these occasionally because even though I’m not very good at reading my poems aloud, it gives me a better sense of their rhythm and music and I think it gives people a bit of an insight to how I interpret the poem, so I decided to read this one for you!
After Words has not been published yet, but is currently part of my full-length book of poetry which I am in the process of finishing for publishing which is currently titled “Museum.”
This poem is called “I Named Her Ophelia” and it’s one of my best poems to date, it is very personal at some points, but it’s well worth it. Please like/reblog this and send me messages if you want to make suggestions to my poetry or just tell me you liked it! (:
About: Gender, Sexuality, Politics, Chronic Illness. These are just a few of the themes that you can find in all of Gibson’s works. This book covers topics such as “Checking Your Privilege” and “Black Lives Matter”. Although, this is not my favorite of Gibson’s books, there were several poems that knocked it out of the park.
Publisher: Write Bloody Publishing
“All the wars we’ve fought have turned our shine into rust; Now we can’t touch each other’s trust without a tetanus shot.”