Outgrow// uproot// pare down// not ache of yearning// but the blunt peal and severed joint, too itchy to scab// too raw for the leaving-alone-ing// never pink healing// red sore// thought I was some sort of animal to reconcile myself// but an animal wouldn’t tell itself stories// wouldn’t know sin from a wrong thing// digest or nurture its deficits// it would just be// I shouldn’t// can’t// don’t find body// in another body// uncover self in the discovery of other-flesh// people becoming wretched, becoming whole// halved by the collision, making treacherous matter// desire dripping glassy gasoline, bloodhounding to the mouth of some explosion// how does anyone sane try that?// so is it absence?// yearning?// does one have the faculties for love? First flesh?// is one capable// but abandoned?// or incapable & only absent?// is it hollow?// or the corkscrewed fatty chunk ripped off by a cookie cutter shark?// or only a depression like the eye of a tree// something grown// around?// it’s like giving up power// blame// the confession of a wound that you// didn’t have strength or will enough to defend against// or in cowardice allowed inflicted// & an animal doesn’t tell itself stories so it can forgive itself// pointing out the ways it let itself be hurt// the same exact ways like//slipping into pattern// if there’s a crime then there’s a body mutilated somewhere// & how could anyone ever give someone their grace like that// there’s little grace already// can’t understand it// or maybe I can &// I’m missing// out// or I never could & thus should stop carving myself out?// monastic// chaste as dead doe// something killed or something already dead from twelve winters back, born blue, not amputated or stolen from// just grown around like the eye of a tree// I’ve grown sick to a love-saturated world, a sex-saturated world, a need-saturated world, a want-saturated world// ever desire, ever aflame// love an upstart birthing itself into the material world// like the old god that makes itself// putting its foot through the mirror// the poets// running electric// leaping shadows around a burning pit// tuned in// & me// listening to grand language in tongues I can’t know// all its vanity in its obscurity// you gotta be seeking the other, you know// you have to pursue or be pursued// Dug in my heels, I still in the smoke// run me over first before I go letting some body make my flesh with theirs// I’ve run from all other vague terrors, nightmares, adult in their fogginess, philosophies, ideals, certain thinkings// but a faceless nobody asking me to put my heart in their mouth?// can’t move me// when I run its only that I’m being chased by my own shadow// only my own, only me// so on the butchery & beauty// & the transcendent surgery// of that moon-slunk god// poisonous as mercury//do not you dare challenge me with loving me// they took whole handfuls, fingers gory with the clay// & I didn’t know any better// don’t know if I was ever a child// or an animal// or a tree-eye// or shark-meat// or even a woman// so much as what is carved down to the promise of being the beloved first// & the bride eternal// & I had to think about the body// the body// the body// they pretended it was a matter of the heart// playing music & making off with everything// my folding body// abundant// bread// origami’d platter// glistening like fat floats on the broth// yet wanting me lean as a waif// & isn’t it just romantic?// what they did to me is what they’re still trying to do to me// Love be no god// Love be the devil stretching his legs in the room torn out of girlhood, promised his due// you cannot challenge me with loving me// lets differentiate, let’s reiterate, we are speaking different languages. Love?// Me?// You ought to let go, or get dragged.
Khadija Abdalla Bajaber is a Mombasarian writer of Hadrami descent and the 2018 winner of the inaugural Graywolf Press Africa Prize for a first novel manuscript. You can find her work on Enkare Review, A Long House, Lolwe, and Down River Road, among others.
