Black Looks - Including an African LGBTIQ+ Archive

Poetry

THE BEADS AROUND MY NECK

for i woke up (with a sore throat) sounding
hoarse and deep-voiced, sounding terribly manly,
this necessary incantation consoles me
as i tearfully rock to and fro, waving in gusty, harmattan wind
like a heavy, metal swing.
i am healing, though. not because of the sandy winds,
or what i say. but because of the curative favor in repetition.
and so do i sit and faithfully oscillate in the dust and invoke the souls
of all the men and boys who ever died fatherless.
under the vivid moonlight i pick up and caress a fat pebble.
shiny like metal and smooth like oil, it warmly glides
between my palms as if it has always been there,
couched between my worn palms like an egg.
i tilt my head backwards to look up to the moon. for peace,
i silently soothe the fat, green beads around my neck and forget that
i woke up sounding sore, sounding troublingly like my father.