Small Gifts
I. BAPTISM
At twelve I left home. Began by
packing my trunks – putting away
the things I did not need:
the copper colored Barbie dolls, the burlap
bag full of half-threaded bobbins, my mother’s
hopes and dreams, the once jagged rock
that cut a ragged seam in my back
whose edges I had rubbed smooth.
I was brought to a brick house
bathed in shadow. Seeking protection
I coated my skin in cocoa butter, braided
my coarse curls back into a crown
of nappy ropes, crossed myself three
times and checked my empty pockets for locks
of my hair I meant to burn so the crows
could not build a nest and drive me crazy,
a packet of salt I stole from the diner
should someone brush my feet with a broom.
Only in hunger did I eat the bread loaf
ends but my purse stayed off the floor. In
the Pentecostal church, another superstition:
they dunk you two times in Baptism waters. Assurance
if the first immersion in the Spirit does not take
accidents happen and you still swallow him whole.
II. SALVATION
I read today that the fourth
of July was once a Black holiday.
[After the Civil War, the defeated Confederates—
those traitors—closeted themselves inside
their homes and could not muster the concern
to celebrate liberation from tyranny. They lost
love for their country, so flummoxed
by the notion of independence for us darkies.]
Freed Blacks held massive parades to celebrate
the promise of a nation made good.
We met in the public square, the town halls,
arms open wide, whole families lined the streets,
could recite in syncopation – the Declaration
of Independence, the Emancipation Proclamation,
and the Thirteenth Amendment. The lovers
danced the too-la-loo, until their heels hurt
from pounding out their joy, free to link arms,
love in daylight, raise their own children, to believe
briefly that they were saved.
At twelve I left home. Began by
packing my trunks – putting away
the things I did not need:
the copper colored Barbie dolls, the burlap
bag full of half-threaded bobbins, my mother’s
hopes and dreams, the once jagged rock
that cut a ragged seam in my back
whose edges I had rubbed smooth.
I was brought to a brick house
bathed in shadow. Seeking protection
I coated my skin in cocoa butter, braided
my coarse curls back into a crown
of nappy ropes, crossed myself three
times and checked my empty pockets for locks
of my hair I meant to burn so the crows
could not build a nest and drive me crazy,
a packet of salt I stole from the diner
should someone brush my feet with a broom.
Only in hunger did I eat the bread loaf
ends but my purse stayed off the floor. In
the Pentecostal church, another superstition:
they dunk you two times in Baptism waters. Assurance
if the first immersion in the Spirit does not take
accidents happen and you still swallow him whole.
II. SALVATION
I read today that the fourth
of July was once a Black holiday.
[After the Civil War, the defeated Confederates—
those traitors—closeted themselves inside
their homes and could not muster the concern
to celebrate liberation from tyranny. They lost
love for their country, so flummoxed
by the notion of independence for us darkies.]
Freed Blacks held massive parades to celebrate
the promise of a nation made good.
We met in the public square, the town halls,
arms open wide, whole families lined the streets,
could recite in syncopation – the Declaration
of Independence, the Emancipation Proclamation,
and the Thirteenth Amendment. The lovers
danced the too-la-loo, until their heels hurt
from pounding out their joy, free to link arms,
love in daylight, raise their own children, to believe
briefly that they were saved.
III. TONGUES
I prepared to receive the message in tongues / tangled mine, with twine / to throttle its tumult/
held it taunt/ stilled its flaunt / flick flutter float and finesse/ I said be still and listen/ tongue
Lord! I heard you say / where two are gathered in my name / there I am / so I gathered them /
to my lips / to my kiss / to suckle at each breast / each syllable undulating off the tongue /
individual stroke of heat / and sleek muscle / rippled in adoration/ twined as a conduit for
language/ I sought communion/ Glorified your name / exaltation: Come, Savior. Your name / on
my tongue / as soft / and salt-laden / as butter pecan / ice cream / sipped / from your own /
mouth.
I prepared to receive the message in tongues / tangled mine, with twine / to throttle its tumult/
held it taunt/ stilled its flaunt / flick flutter float and finesse/ I said be still and listen/ tongue
Lord! I heard you say / where two are gathered in my name / there I am / so I gathered them /
to my lips / to my kiss / to suckle at each breast / each syllable undulating off the tongue /
individual stroke of heat / and sleek muscle / rippled in adoration/ twined as a conduit for
language/ I sought communion/ Glorified your name / exaltation: Come, Savior. Your name / on
my tongue / as soft / and salt-laden / as butter pecan / ice cream / sipped / from your own /
mouth.
The Fairlies selection in each issue of West Trestle Review features a reprint of a poem or story written by a woman of color or non-binary writer of color. "Small Gifts" was originally published first in Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora, Volume 45.1 and included in Zobitz's chapbook Love Letters to The Revolution, published by American Poetry Journal.
Angelique Zobitz (she/her/hers) is the author of the chapbooks Burn Down Your House from Milk & Cake Press and Love Letters to The Revolution. Luna Luna Magazine named her one of '5 Poets of Color to watch in 2021' alongside Chen Chen and Amanda Gorman. She can be found on Twitter and Instagram: @angeliquezobitz.
Art: Planetary transits, Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad