bad gyal
buff ting
nice smile
softly
laughs loud
kind heart
mean face
cocky
bredrin
sistren
young ting
chargie
dem man think they know me, they don’t really know me.
change in my pocket
counted it, spent it
Snicker in my pocket
didn’t last, melted
sadness that I carry
ain’t really dealt with
dem man think they know me, they don’t really know me.
i’m glowing from somewhere.
my waist beads have started to roll upwards,
under my breast like a second bra strap,
breasts which usually rest comfortably in your mouth,
like my name, like the letter O
lower your jaw
you say i feel more full moon than crescent
and you fill your mouth with new words
baby and belly and time.
Dad tells me to pound the okra, sometimes he says okro
sometimes mum says trafficate instead of indicate and i get confused
sometimes i linger on irregardless or regardless
lap or laps
plantain or plantin - depending
sometimes i can’t find the right word
the sentence dissipating in to awkward laughter
language gives me anxiety, so does boiling rice
Dad is still waiting on the okra
i cut chunks in to the mortar, pound it with pestle
it is mahogany, it is sculpted
it looks like something the British would
find and keep
behind glass
from us.
i run my finger along the bottom
feel for ancient engraving
if not language i will pass on taste.
both the need the tongue
but I know when a soup needs more salt
a sentence in my mouth will reach the tip
and I still couldn’t tell you what’s missing