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