Amina Abbey Lincoln/Amir Rabiyah
*Brief note: italicized words in the poems are particular words or lines from the song that inspired the poems.
Throw It Away
we make word we living God(desses)
we the creators—word travels
from unseen dust
& fills our mouths while we sleep
throats hourglasses, words scratching
our tonsils until we are forced to howl
graveled pleas, urgings. From lust, pain
& longing, from broad strokes & gestures
poems grow, children turn in my womb,
some have passed onto new realms,
others hang on longer
than their time, kicking, their small fists
punching, but not birthing,
it becomes hard to listen
when we can’t play our stories,
when our lungs fill with air
but we open our soundless mouths
or demons take possession of our stories
& burn our tongues, whisper hush hush
how are we then to listen? when our fear
becomes monstrous,
when we other our own myths,
say they aren’t real, when they are…
I was temporarily well, until illness struck
This world & that world blurred, until
their worlds, your worlds, millions of worlds
buzzed & blended together (it was not the medication)
but my body’s seizing making itself known
I amused myself by make believing my bed
was a boat, until I was out at sea, with nothing on my lips
but salt, I had become used to
being adrift, landless
an inheritance I suppose, or a memory from way back
who knows, but my ears
became conch shells
& all I heard was sea sea sea sea sea sea sea sea even
when the boat steadied, I rocked back &
forth I waved at every passing plane, I prayed someone
lower their wings, I tilted my head from
side to side to rid myself of the water, I had become
too full of the tide, no one would save me,
I jumped ship, swam swam swam
& let myself be pulled, simultaneously being open
to the possibility of another music, cars 'trumpets
or circling birds shrieking to me, shore up ahead
anything that reminded me of song
my limbs to softened, loosed themselves
into castaway branches, I rested by floating
I gave my body up not to a chemist’s science
but to a blue knowledge & I remembered I was a figure made of clay
only able to shape myself so much, not (in)complete control
I threw it away, the myth that I was ever lost
That I was just a broken bottle adrift, with a message
No one cared to read, it was not true
sounds of whales replaying tonal mourning
back & forth buoyed me,
I did return to a shore, still sick, still landless,
but with a sharper mind & a vow to let stories pass
through my body as blood, able to shift
I am more animal now than ever,
I watched the octopus adapt by morphing
Its flesh against a flourish of coral,
the octopus did not change its essence,
but used its innate powers to survive
& when the predators came, the octopus
did not only flee, but gifted ink to survive
Thinking of You (While Having My M.R.I)
The tube thrums and thumps, cold IV fluid drips
Into my veins—another day of tests at the hospital, yet there is music here too. In the clicking of
magnetic resonance, & the vibrational dialogue Sun
Ra between waves & my optic nerve jazz even in this place, in wailing
triage & a restless waiting room. I’ve always thought of jazz as the closest
possible expression of grief & also the way old friends talk & talk even after being
apart for years or the types of relationships that hold silent pauses, where a nod
signifies begin or I’m listening, how the musicians on stage communicate
in quickening of beats or slowing
The secret world of the sick is not universal but none of us can avoid going inwards, doctors will
look under our skin, study our blood under microscopes. We face mortality; all I can do inside this
tube, remain perfectly still, keep my breath soft, my eyes closed, so as to not become too afraid,
pretend this—a secret world, cocoon.
I hum your words Abbey, as my brain glows brightly on the technician’s screen.
Even here, immobile, in my hiding place, I fashion a sacred world,
your hymns cover me, a heated blanket
How Much Can A Body Abide?
Let up! Let up! Let up! Let up! Pour rum & honey into the sea. Make every offering.
Light up every altar. Fresh flowers for the dead! Fresh flowers for the living! Don’t
forget Bree Newsome climbing the pole & pulling down the confederate flag with
scripture on her mouth & a boundless courage. If praying is your thing, now is
always the time—on your knees, cross-‐legged, forehead to the ground, standing, sitting.
If making love is how you pray, stop reading this poem, & go to your lover.
sign, take to the streets. Make bread, if that saves you. We must
If prayer lives on the treetops, in song, go to the woods & sing. If prayer is in a protest #sayhername
until her names become a part of us. This history is long & twisted. How many have said,
“forget about the past” while sharpening their knives & loading their guns? Fed up! Fed up!
Fed up! Fed up! Let our bodies, our words be so loud every house shakes. Let them see the
fury of our love when we #sayhername