+ Mama (And My Heart Sings)

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My San Fran angels have christened me "Mama." It was after I called Dusty Rose "Mama" in my sing-song way, how I call all the women I love, "hey Mama, can you turn the music up?" Baraka wrote this poem for me. He read it under a 1am street lamp in rural California, two hours from my Daly City futon during one of our poem-circles. The night before read it to me over the telephone but I didn't recognize it's title as my name. He laughs like how could I have missed the tribute in the story? There are other stories to be told, but for now, this space is just for his words. This sounds of a selfish statement of sorts, but of all the songs and poems I've gathered in my name, this is by far my favorite.

Grinding out a freelance job in the race against time, perhaps a nap before my feature at Dalva and Dig Plans. Ethereal and sleepy after 2am bedtime, 6am wake up, crowded in a bed with Baraka and Dusty, all three of us cuddled up like children, only a bit less innocent given the rum and the green and the whole evening.

Anyway, do read. I am so touched, I'm glowing. I wish you could hear him read it, all urgency and feeling and gut.

PS. Next day edit. I just realized the numbers in the owl are my birthday. I don't know how on earth he remembered this after one brief mention, but it speaks to how he really listens. That is rare, friends. I am trying to be a better listener, too, so I can be the keeper of birthdays.

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Mama (after The Gift, by Caits)
by Baraka Noel


You come over. We sit on the floor
sip sweet warm cold ice drinks

I ask you where you're broken
you remove three wisdom teeth
and smile softly.

I hand you an owl carved from oak
inscribed with seven two eight four

you whisper the name of
a man your father loved

this is not our first

I met you on the radio
so let me listen

am I another man breaking
in your daydreams? Breaking in
to your evenings?

Will I make you my horoscope?

I ask when you began mourning
you pluck a lemon from your pocket

may we peel this moment with our teeth
not to keep from sobbing
or to remember when we laughed

if half of us are accidents
we put the family in broken

excuse my profanity
the vomit in my beard
my tangled narrative
snared on your earlobe

we've stood here before

black plastic bags
stuffed with regret
packing wishes in boxes
in the trunks of cars
storage spaces stacked
with the pain we couldn't carry

I tell you the earth is spinning
so its hard for me to choose one point of view

you smudge three knuckles
across my forehead

open the driver's side door
I speak your name

Mama, may it hold 'till after language
I'm broke and you can half a piece

breathe in

this spell from a Griot called burrows

exhales

a man named ekebhumi
asked about your face

your jaw is birdsong
from a bear's cave

your tongue winds a time bomb

your breath of Adderal focus

I'm listening. What's real?

I miss wrapping my brother Alex in my arms
a cushion from right angles and gravity

this earth's core spins hot
as a blood vessel bursting
in granddaddy's brain

breathe in

exhale

are you thirsty?
How do you worship?
Place the answer on the roof of your mouth

do you worship?
do you thirst?

how are you?
may I hold your hand?
you can hold mine

what is more brave than trusting someone?
I wrote this so you would like me

do you

hear me?

she does

love

rise inside me like love
rise inside me like a family of tapeworm
you want the sky: alive and honest
I'm mostly hoping to be broke and whole

mumble

mumb

mum

my perfect/split into lovers and scattered

I am shrapnel from attempted suicide
afterbirth of a miscarriage

I am partial
I used to look at you and call us me

maybe this is why
we just met today

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