A Half of Everything
four poems by Animashaun Ameen
content/trigger warning: discussions of domestic abuse, identity, and sexuality
THIS IS HOW WE BEGIN
I emptied my body into the ocean
and watched the waves wash it back
to shore. Lonesome body dripping
saltwater—I crossed my heart
and hoped for depthless death.
Like sharp sand, time seeped
through my fingers and left me
with only the memory of hunger.
I die in little words
—my cold body trapped in a pink room
filled with pink nothingness.
In a desperate attempt to be,
I borrowed the eyes of the almighty
but I am still plagued with blindness.
My hands reaching for the days
of future’s past; Lot’s wife
longing for the tenderness of her
body as she turned into a pillar of salt.
Yes, the painted dogs will come
to claim what is theirs—the birds
with the golden wings will fly
a little too close to the sun. Icarus’
fate staring him in the face. My fate
staring me in the face. I long
to touch the cold face of God
but my body can’t hold water—
these holes make me whole.
PRELUDE TO MADNESS
Violence is a black dog that never loses
your scent. I raised my hand to my face
to admire the knife—I raised the knife
to my face to admire the beauty
of the open wound; a new beginning
christened with blood. I have seen so much of
chaos and I know them well enough
to call them all by their first names.
The shock numbing my mind,
I closed my eyes and found myself
on the beach where the white sand
threatened to take my feet away from me.
I sat with my father. I reached out to touch
his face and questioned him
about the cowries I carry in my pocket
—the things I have inherited that would
Drown me at sea. My greatest regret
is that I grew up faster than I wanted to.
My greatest regret is that I grew up slower
than I was meant to; my body shy
from all the violence, my arms lacking
the grit to throw the right punches.
Eli, Eli, how do I turn back the hand of time
to save all those I was supposed to?
All we had was silence, as if
the littlest of sounds would annoy God
and make him wipe us away with water.
With nothing left to do, I collected my feet
and ran into the crashing waves, my father
running after me, his old knees failing
him and throwing him to the white sand.
I do not own my hands, he muttered.
Boy, look at me. I do not own my hands.
At the open door that was supposed to return me
to my body, I raised my hand to my face
to admire the knife and I could not find
my hands.
THE SECOND COMING
she offered him salt, two cowries
she dug from deep inside her neck,
a blue bowl containing her broken
heart—and without looking he
sliced through the air with his palm
and rejected them all. this little offering
of bodies. outside here the asphalt road
stretched and stretched as if calling to her
to come set herself free, two mad dogs
fought over a meatless bone—what was left
of their tails wiggling dangerously
from their frail bodies. i watched
the little tussle for power, the bigger dog
growling and baring its fangs
as if explaining the violence it is capable of
in the only language it knows. again,
she offered him her tongue, and this time,
he stretched his left hand and took it.
she offered him more fingers, her fat, brown toes
—the miracle of little things—and he took them all.
this is no time to end, so she offered him my eyes,
the rest of her legs, my tiny little neck
with a lifetime of magic oozing out of it.
there is no satisfying mad dogs, so i kept on watching
from the vastness of his open pockets as he stretched
forth his hand and asked, carefully—
with no form of remorse— for what is left
of her life.
A HALF OF EVERYTHING
I am half black, half gay
and half Muslim. I miscount
my fingers and mouth myself
a new name. I am half bad
at maths. A half of all the things
that are meant to kill me.
Half of me is still running
from shadows I do not recognize.
This is how I picture it:
my upper body running south,
my limbs running the other way
and everyone running from
the shitshow that is my life.
I dance with half of my neck
broken. On the radio, the reporter
says half the world is insane,
and the other half will never know
what true happiness is.
What half of the spectrum
do I belong? Half of my heart
is filled with fat, and the other
half is colder than a dog’s nose.
Half of me still wants to be here.
I knocked on God’s door
to ask him what part
of the spectrum I belong to.
I knocked on God’s door
but all I found staring at me
was the longing he hides
his green face behind.