Elegy forWhite Girlhood III
“White people! We again beg you to wake up before your heritage and your race are obliterated.” — Ms. J. E. Andrews, 1936
I.
as the waters rose in
louisiana all the graves came
undone: soil spilling out into
endless waves. the dead
come back to join us in
this, what will probably be
called the first
harbinger.
once, as we approached
the mississippi, a white cop pulled
us over on route 631, shined his
light all over
my pale white legs.
you smiled, drawled
officer officer
just heading home
what a pretty night.
or endless.
cops always shining lights on my
legs in louisiana or any other
state, like what I had there was
something they wanted for
themselves. wonder what
they’d do if they
ever got me
alone.
II.
there are many ways to be
buried. some times with no
soil at all. in louisiana white men erupt
into dirt, as they grasp my
head or hair or ear or shoulder:
my sudden lack
of air
in louisiana i imagine death dripping out
my mouth, soft granted silt, some
oil, too. in my dirt-whisper
officer, officer
we’re all going to die
unless you take down that uniform.
officer
officer
I could lay down for a short
death with you if it means one less
patrol out tonight
so now i lay here
officer
on the banks of 631 in paradis,
louisiana, roots growing right out between
my thighs, mouth mud-full, breeze
lifting my voice to the river’s swell:
officer
officer
the dead
will keep coming back for you.
4%
Anti-Ode to My Mother’s Anger
So mad you could spit
So mad you could cry
So mad you could scream
So mad you could throw my clothes in the
trash
So mad you could hurl the TV from the porch
So mad you could lose it
So mad you could lay down right here
So mad you could
die
So mad you could leave and never come back
So mad you could slap my cheek
So mad you could burst
So mad you could crash this car
right now
I climbed into the pit of myself
I talked into the wind
I curled up inside
I clenched my fingernails into my tongue
I clasped my two arms tight
I looked at my two eyes in the mirror
I shouted into my thinning comforter
I smoked a cigarette under your window
I slept on the couch
I put the moon in my uterus
It’s ok,
I’m folding the laundry you forgot I’m going
It’s ok,
to bed on time I’m sleeping
It’s ok,
with only one person at a time and it’s a man I’m wiping
It’s ok,
the baseboards with a wet rag I’m opening
It’s ok,
all the mail and putting the envelopes neatly in the recycling I’m buying
It’s ok,
artichokes and spinach and using them before they go bad I’m washing
It’s ok,
the compost bin and I’m taking
It’s ok,
a daily walk under the deciduous trees and I’m swallowing
It’s ok,
my meds and I’m holding
It’s ok,
my stomach every now and then I’m wondering
It’s ok,
if you saw me now are you still
ok
are you still mad or are you
ok
sorry for this endless list or
ok
were you just trying to un-tip
ok
the dresser your
ok
own mother
ok
dumped
ok
on the bedroom floor, are you
okay?
Nomen Est Omen: Lunar
he says he can’t understand: he’s a man.
who’s to say? too much to explain. not even
a measurable scale. scientists say:
they’re unable to establish
a baseline
for pain. they especially don’t know
what a uterus, contracting, might
be like. perhaps there is no
comparing. there is no phantom limb
theory for when the baby comes outside
when before they were
attached. scientists have, however,
explained:
people with uteruses can tolerate higher
levels of pain than those
without but
that’s pretty much the definition of not
understanding. I was born to experience
more pain so therefore, I will, experience
more pain? the year I was pregnant
I burned a patch of my thigh bigger
than the opening of the cervix,
watched my skin peel back, boiling water
dripping cool. later, whatever number of
stitches they tried to explain to me
at the hospital, pulling me back
together, telling me just
try to get across the room today. my
baby screaming from the swaddle.
I gushed blood and stomach fluid. I
spit in the shower five days later. felt how
my stomach holds pain
how the moon holds gravity. a cycle
un-linear, untouchable, un-owned;
I strike contraction, call it body
emerged, I strike pain, term it light,
which is to say:
the moon is a reflection
of me. he need not understand.
Casey Zella Andrews (she/hers) is a queer poet and teacher who lives in West Medford, Massachusetts, with her partner and young child. She became a parent in the first months of the coronavirus pandemic. Andrews has a BA from Hampshire College, earned a MAT from Simmons College to become a high school English language arts teacher in Boston, and earned an MA in Critical and Creative Thinking from the University of Massachusetts – Boston. Her poetry has most recently been published in Aprosexia Lit and Shift.
The Marbled Sigh 