116.
You see
the man at the bus stop?
the man with the earplugs tight in his earholes?
the man who is breaking?
who is dancing
who is dancing & breaking
who is break-dancing, breakdancing?
Look,
the breakdancer is losing his fingers
the man’s fingers are falling off
breaking off, breaking off
Broken fingers
dancing fingers
broken dancing fingers
scattered on the pavement
scattered & glittery because blood spray
glittery & bright because different nail polish on every finger
bright & shadowed because the sun catches & sends light back
to shatter everything on to the pavement
See the man?
We may need to reassemble the guy
the man
the break dancer
the man broken by exposure to unadulterated music
117.
A prose list, a list of reasons:
God on my skin
The DNA on the inside of my ring
Your insistence on devotion
The regularity of the foghorn these days
Superstition
The buzz on my scalp when you say:
okay, that’s it, good bye
A white man, many white men will let other women
other white women go ahead on them at the line up for
the bus & then walk in after them as if you’re not
a woman, as if you’re not there
You’re already not there
he wants you to know
you’re not there
We were already dying
we might as well not be there
The rustling of leaves reminds us
that we’re always on the way back to nothing
Nothing
We were already dying anyway
I won’t kiss you good bye
Superstition or not
Foghorns mark time that we forget on longer days
The DNA on the inside of my ring
where my skin caught & bled yesterday tells me
I’m already dying, scrap of skin by scrap of skin
God on my skin, god on my skin where you kiss me
& a small list to explain
why I won’t kiss you good bye
118.
so at first we had a rhythm
my bones did
but now
after the fourth murder
of me
my bones now
rattle
we had a syncopation
my bones and i did
why the pattern
why
the pattern
after all this was the fourth time
wasn’t it
the fourth time
to get killed
murdered
(might as well say it)
slaughtered
whose going to remember
so my bones have gone jazz
& you’re never going to know
when the next beat comes
where the next clackle of
femur & clavicle
(none of your
nonesense)
my bones do
rhythm & not
rhythm
tell me don’t
tell me don’t
the fourth time i should know
by now
i should know now
that there’s a spot on the kitchen shelf
an empty glass jar
labelled: tired-bone powder
119.
shitstory
not murder or pillage et al
shitstory in the telling
engraving
remembering
that
i love you
(that’s herstory)
i love you – that story
i love you
not shit narratives
not shitstory
120.
So I heard that your were done talking
that you’d reached the end of your words
that the rest of your life in silence
will be matched by respectful nods
from strangers who heard that you had run out of words
So you’re not talking anymore
but have you given any thought to how it looks
you bobbing your head up & down
in response to strangers nodding at you
you’re a snake
what does it look like with your head bobbing up & down
in response to strangers nodding their heads?
What do you think?
Oh, wait
right
you’re not talking anymore
***
& now that you’re not talking
& all I have is the bobbing of your head
up & down, up & down
this is what you told me
that your dad & his friends laughed
when they made lewd jokes between them
(none of which you remember
except that they laughed)
& all you remember is the laughter
& not any of how those jokes made you feel
today the men at the office make race jokes
as if you’re not there
& they laugh & snicker
laugh & snicker
now all you do is bob your head
up & down, up & down
maybe someday
you’ll forget how you feel about that
131.
Juliane Okot Bitek 