Analogy
My mother calls me by a name only
her pronunciation knows to translate.
Believe me, there is incense as an act of God
in how
she has sprayed fragrance and flattery
onto my body and
she has asked that I do not disappear.
In one instance, a dimple will pop up and she will
string together a chant of God in vernacular.
To seal this worship with a covenant,
she has asked that I collect every word
that gratifies my body with both hands.
At sixteen, I am allowed to love a boy whose
cheekbone is an analogy for how heavens
hold rain intact just for Sunday mornings.
I listen to the stuttering of his candied lips
and I wonder what words meant for
my body have disappeared in the undertones.
Or whether,
in my attempt to squeeze a flower name out of these conversations,
I have missed out on God channelling gaiety on my skin
through his fingertips.
In the devouring,
and the confessions,
I have pulled out a simile for how my mother refers
to worship rising out of a mouth of a boy,
and how hands hold other hands in theirs
to diffuse the tension of
bodies beginning to adjoin,
and how in the naming, and the confessions,
an ode is steaming from the mouth of a boy and
it is adorning a creation God has named
and gathered for His own.
her pronunciation knows to translate.
Believe me, there is incense as an act of God
in how
she has sprayed fragrance and flattery
onto my body and
she has asked that I do not disappear.
In one instance, a dimple will pop up and she will
string together a chant of God in vernacular.
To seal this worship with a covenant,
she has asked that I collect every word
that gratifies my body with both hands.
At sixteen, I am allowed to love a boy whose
cheekbone is an analogy for how heavens
hold rain intact just for Sunday mornings.
I listen to the stuttering of his candied lips
and I wonder what words meant for
my body have disappeared in the undertones.
Or whether,
in my attempt to squeeze a flower name out of these conversations,
I have missed out on God channelling gaiety on my skin
through his fingertips.
In the devouring,
and the confessions,
I have pulled out a simile for how my mother refers
to worship rising out of a mouth of a boy,
and how hands hold other hands in theirs
to diffuse the tension of
bodies beginning to adjoin,
and how in the naming, and the confessions,
an ode is steaming from the mouth of a boy and
it is adorning a creation God has named
and gathered for His own.
To hold you is to carve out a memory
I am the first scab of wound and injury of what we suppress.
By leaving, you are drawing life and dialect from my mouth
and you are emptying me.
Gather me into your careful hands.
Remind me once again how bodies
fold themselves into
emptiness and absences,
and remind me how
loneliness sounds a siren over roofs
we train our hands to uphold
or else we are homes
no one approaches from the mouth.
It disturbs me that I live
with you,
that I rise with you and I endure
with you,
that I rest with you and
pass the night with you
only to part with you.
Of what use is ticking time, then, if we can not
tune our bodies into
something memorable?
Of what use is this night, then, if we can not
draw apologies out of each other's throats
with the way we lock lips?
To hold you is to slowly let you go.
It is to slowly carve out a memory.
It is to wonder what remains with me
and what you carry with you.
By leaving, you are drawing life and dialect from my mouth
and you are emptying me.
Gather me into your careful hands.
Remind me once again how bodies
fold themselves into
emptiness and absences,
and remind me how
loneliness sounds a siren over roofs
we train our hands to uphold
or else we are homes
no one approaches from the mouth.
It disturbs me that I live
with you,
that I rise with you and I endure
with you,
that I rest with you and
pass the night with you
only to part with you.
Of what use is ticking time, then, if we can not
tune our bodies into
something memorable?
Of what use is this night, then, if we can not
draw apologies out of each other's throats
with the way we lock lips?
To hold you is to slowly let you go.
It is to slowly carve out a memory.
It is to wonder what remains with me
and what you carry with you.
BIO:
Naomi Waweru (she/her) is inspired by love, vulnerability, and the yearning of bodies to be free in their connection, and she has an eye for tradition and culture. Her writings present an adoration for the body. She has work in Lolwe, Clerestory. Reach her on Twitter @ndutapoems and Instagram @_ndutapoems.
Naomi Waweru (she/her) is inspired by love, vulnerability, and the yearning of bodies to be free in their connection, and she has an eye for tradition and culture. Her writings present an adoration for the body. She has work in Lolwe, Clerestory. Reach her on Twitter @ndutapoems and Instagram @_ndutapoems.
