Aricka Foreman
go here nothing to see home
the bitch barks in the dark yard
of an old dream before the molotov
crashed through my sleep when I
tell the story people’s eyes widen
like hardboiled eggs somewhere
I had slinger they said was my father
not sure if my brain latched to lore
or I caught like a moth some utterance
between the women who made me
over coffee his hands big enough to
gather the collar of my mother’s jacket
drag her out the car door I’ve always
suffered from terrible sleep my gift
to see through the walls of ogs I wake
wet and shivering a new worm in a fresh
body a child screaming for the end in the
morning I search the newspapers for their
name, syllables broken at the hands of
someone they loved how the news comes
frenzied like that scared bitch yelping
helpless at lightning and drums when men
ask me for water I know they mean my pussy
though they bring no buckets or even
a small glass sometimes I lay my dress
across their mouths pour and wait to see
which one won’t drown it’s the closest
I’ve come to love even if it’s not the right word
Aricka Foreman’s work has appeared in The Drunken Boat, Torch Poetry: A Journal for African American Women, Minnesota Review, Union Station Magazine, Vinyl Poetry, and Please Excuse This Poem: 100 New Poems for the NextGeneration by Viking Penguin. A Cave Canem and Callaloo Writer's Workshop Fellow, she is the Enumerate Editor for The Offing.
Return to September 2015 Edition
the bitch barks in the dark yard
of an old dream before the molotov
crashed through my sleep when I
tell the story people’s eyes widen
like hardboiled eggs somewhere
I had slinger they said was my father
not sure if my brain latched to lore
or I caught like a moth some utterance
between the women who made me
over coffee his hands big enough to
gather the collar of my mother’s jacket
drag her out the car door I’ve always
suffered from terrible sleep my gift
to see through the walls of ogs I wake
wet and shivering a new worm in a fresh
body a child screaming for the end in the
morning I search the newspapers for their
name, syllables broken at the hands of
someone they loved how the news comes
frenzied like that scared bitch yelping
helpless at lightning and drums when men
ask me for water I know they mean my pussy
though they bring no buckets or even
a small glass sometimes I lay my dress
across their mouths pour and wait to see
which one won’t drown it’s the closest
I’ve come to love even if it’s not the right word
Aricka Foreman’s work has appeared in The Drunken Boat, Torch Poetry: A Journal for African American Women, Minnesota Review, Union Station Magazine, Vinyl Poetry, and Please Excuse This Poem: 100 New Poems for the NextGeneration by Viking Penguin. A Cave Canem and Callaloo Writer's Workshop Fellow, she is the Enumerate Editor for The Offing.
Return to September 2015 Edition