Poems

Sometimes, I felt my dreams were stillborn

Dear Younger-Me:

I often felt our dreams were stillborn because vicious words scared our desires.

I felt the endless pain but could not see the permanent growth

So, I treated you with bold, refined aggression.

Reflecting, our wounds have watered me like a thousand oceans.

and new air has filled my lungs.

How could we know I was being born, so you had to die?

Thank, you.

Today, the world is not so merciless, and I have blossomed.

I am anchored, fearlessly paving my way – sometimes…

I have found my spark and am a dazzling shine, just as I was meant to be.

Thank you. I am Oaken.

I’m still fitting misplaced pieces, but there is a vast awesomeness that excites possibilities in this new shape I have taken.

I am happy other Young-selves get to experience how you have anchored me so they, too, can become Oaken.

– Ann-Marie Wilmot

Manneguin Lawyer

Bias-cut suit tailor made for a stately pastel empress

No matte to your skin

Silky gloss same finish from top to mid-shin

Your free feet are not in focal view

Growling rowing does not befit such statuesque

Your son I’ve seen before Missas

Your black boy with even blacker blotches

Why he’s changed has he not

Five facial splotches upfront, centre spot invisible bodice.

Is that a baton or gun which you’re passing

Is me you’re passing it to Missas

My cheeks burn, cock spurn for a mighty boy

No buttons, zipper in the rear

Side laissez-faire mademoiselle

It’s your matching kotta that I admire

Oh oh they’ve bandaged your body

Matte tubing queen-sized

That’s how you’d like to see me is it not

Bromide broomstick for feet

Is me Missas love swept at his fête

Me cheek stings it gives you clunk in the right keg

No mind deh Missas

I see you about to climb upon an oil-painted chair

He hates brown gloss finish and so do I

Missas a how you reach on you head top

All the better to balance without one leg

Askance Missas for the missing peg

A puddin pan protects and ‘arms his Pa’s head

He appeareth from time to time

Putty white man like that Godspeed

Not to mention the three Aztec figurines

They’ve covered you from breastbone to floor length casual Cameron

My what a pretty harmonica you play

And how the fingers doth flay

Missas is what he doth meant

Who those women’s Missas, see how they pose er

Long black cocktail dresses hosier

Dilated irises with they beige hair

“No whites here.”

– Jodi Angus