Poetry: Amorak Huey
What came before–where once was flesh heat
where once was heat
vacuum. There was a time when we did not exist
before we burst
into flame or flower. First of two vectors in a dyad:
the state of twoness.
Two things. Two people engaged in ongoing
the interaction itself. Scoot over make room
Your mouth–your name–the grammatical
between us. The words we need not say or cannot
The way a secret whispers its own name or offers
its own reason
for being–the way a kiss begs to be a promise.
for Reva McDaniel Huey
Your voice like dry leaves.
Your skin the color of water.
Your black trunk
that smelled of the Southwest,
desert honeysuckle, soap tree, hackberries–
that bore its fruit of Yahtzee dice,
small blue candies,
magazines with pictures of places
none of us expected to see.
You made the rounds
of your children’s homes -
no more than two years in one place
until my father could bear no more,
moved out himself
and left you his apartment.
Was it restlessness
or stillness brought the disease?
Yes, I know better,
though if I’m to be honest,
was an act you understood.
You didn’t know me
the last time I saw you.
You tried to speak,
before they formed meaning,
the shape of steam
over a well-traveled teakettle,
the false promise
I hope you are comfortable.
At peace, maybe.
Even feel at home.
That trunk–big enough to hold a body,
a place we could hide
and wait to be sought.