POET MAKES PAPER VESSELS
recycling the loss/waste
of my soul-pricking wage work heals
the grief somehow to mimic my first
maker in a making. mother's ways
and feel the reuse of refuse
shapes the play useful beyond catharsis.
words neither contain nor describe this
bottomless grief. she was my first love ,
my first pain. she was my friend.
there have been so many moments
when i wished to tell her look, look at this
i found something new to do. as she would
she showed me how to find
something new in her finding so many
moments when i wished to tell her
tell her what i saw
she so imbued me with her and no one else
shares this nexus of aesthetics
where even where they depart, we meet.
who else would join me to see the
African show at the Guggenheim as she did,
or note the pink people busy copying,
sketching and trying to listen to her words
her knowingness, the joy of her soft hand in mine.
Akua Lezli Hope
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