And
yes,
I died: a black swan and
woke,
sharp, in the skin of
Mitochondrial Eve.
A
shadow falls
on me like
a cold look and
suddenly my hairs rise, pupils
dilate and this almond-shaped amygdala
shivers. A continuous reverberation of light wings
flap at my face. This is absurd for on my wall, right down that American hall, stands a painting; a mythical conga bird
perched on a tree branch. Next to this, a picture of mother
(I am her photocopy) & I in Accra. I wake
to beads of sweat lined on my back and
copper collar bone.
On my wrist I latch, each day,
a crystal hummingbird. It plucks
nectar from fuchsia petals
as it ticks and talks the time of
my world where my niece’s curled
upper lip and my cousin’s small
nose are mirrors
of my grandmother’s golden
face.
Afua Ansong is a Ghanaian American writer, photographer and dancer. A 2015 & 2018 BRIO (Bronx Recognizes Its Own) recipient and a 2017 Callaloo Fellow, she writes about the challenges of the African woman immigrant in the United States, exploring themes of transition, citizenship, and identity. She is currently working on a mixed genre project that explores 60 Adinkra symbols mythicized to have been created by King Gyaman Adinkra of Ivory Coast who was captured by the Asantes of Ghana. Her chapbook American Mercy is forthcoming with Finishing Line Press. Her work can be seen or is forthcoming in Prairie Schooner, Frontier, Newfound and elsewhere.
