Where does the dehumanization of men begin to ensure the perpetuation of the patriarchy and do we even see it?
I saw him.
But quickly turned away-
from the tears that appeared oddly placed.
Proportions of strength mingled with unspoken fears,
that broke through the makeshift shield of boldness.
I might have seen him there.
Lingering between becoming and failure,
Halting memories of
childhoods lost in the fires of being
a stoic shadow of self
a notion of boldness unrealized.
I couldn’t have seen him,
balancing expectation with
the weight of unearned priviliges,
I never saw.
Tracing the outlines of this edge,
I peruse the overlays of memories and
unfinished conversations over,
too many empty glasses-
numbness seeks response and yet,
the edge brings echos of safety,
carrying melancholy in a basket of
chronicles that pay tribute to the fallen
women that betrayed the path of freedom;
too soon and leaving many sisters
The edge beckons still,
mirroring dreams that picture the place where pain and ease
Ayoola, ore mi,
A thousand oceans and broken telephone wires could not separate us. As I usually do, I have mused and mused over your last careful and cursive letter. Perhaps, I should have celebrated the coming of a new life by going through the traditional fanfare. Tears of joy. A congratulatory call. More tears. Anticipation. Rather, your impending birth has had me contemplating our beloved Orisha. I’ve thought about it often enough to say it: this new life must be floating somewhere between orun ati aye. Are you impatient? I cannot bear the anguish of waiting or more still, my absence.
Between soothing tears and building broken bridges, I have been praying for light. When the darkness engulfed my blindness I found it easier to shield my body. I enjoyed the invisibility and I would sometimes gracefully dance between the uneven shadows I found. My own was lost but there were many I found along the way. But I still prayed for the light. I prayed fervently and fearfully, knowing that my body- naked, shapeless and contorted would be seen- be unveiled-
These questions, as do thoughts of how many tears paradise can carry, elude me daily. Where do we find the strength to build when stones so quickly turn to sand? Supposing I lost my footing, which I constantly do–which of the two worlds would accept my heavy, sinful bounty of a body? Ore mi, I am still falling:
Ore mi, I am still falling:
I don start again, abi? I know. All my love to Baba, at long last, some sense in the title. And to my beloved, yes, mine: whisper not only the beauty but also the pure evils and maladroits of our Great Care-Taker. If you won’t, I shall, and you know that is a promise
To more days of Sangria sweetness.