Tiny Joy by Aïcha Martine: A Poet in Residence, Day Three
It happened one day, as you were walking down Wabash Avenue,
fresh from Montréal, that careless woman who’d broken your heart
a little more each year. You sometimes blame that city
but if you were honest with yourself, you would admit
it wasn’t her, it was the weight of what you expected
she could fix. Nobody could fix that — again, if you were
being honest, which is not likely in this lifetime.
It happened, then, as you were exploring your new lover,
inhaling the windswept novelty of Chicago.
A new place in a country you hadn’t returned to in years.
Easy to forget how you’d escaped with taunting words over your shoulder
like you’d done to city after city after city,
whacking pleading hands and cajoling vows aside:
you have seen the last of me, you ungrateful witch
(though you had thrown the offense and picked at the scab
with restless fingers until you were once again an outsider).
When you torrented out of Montréal, you vaulted over your old flame Maryland
and skedaddled straight West until Lake Michigan caught you
with a wink and a come-hither finger.
It happened, then, as you sauntered down Wabash avenue
— and I am not stalling: but you see,
this thing, it was monumental in its smallness,
next to those other too-colossal things,
and I’ve been trying to put it into words —:
the petalled city, it slowly effloresced around you.
A person smiled, another nodded, a third one opened a door.
The sound of water harmonized with corner store jazz: you eased.
Hadn’t felt that in too long, eyes always trained
inward or down as you saunter down streets
because being a walking woman, it is hard, being a black one harder,
depending on where you are casting the die. Chicago grinned slowly, beckoned:
and you went. And not that you stayed infatuated for long,
and not that things have changed overnight, and your city-loves are less scary,
and not that you will ever understand the concept of home,
and not that this country hates you any less.
But you always wait for the sign, the one that says, even for a second:
come closer, let’s dance, try and see if you can keep up.
You were seen. It was nice. Sometimes, you just want
to write something down because it is nice.
………………..
A. Martine is a trilingual writer, musician and artist of color who goes where the waves take her. She might have been a kraken in a past life. She's an Assistant Editor at Reckoning Press and a co-Editor-in-Chief and Producer of The Nasiona. Her collection AT SEA was shortlisted for the 2019 Kingdoms in the Wild Poetry Prize. Some words found or forthcoming in: Déraciné, The Rumpus, Bright Wall/Dark Room, Metaphorosis, South Broadway Ghost Society, Gone Lawn, Rogue Agent, Boston Accent Lit, Porridge Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, Figure 1, Willawaw, Tenderness Lit.
Twitter: @Maelllstrom