Repast At The Diversity Center
We line up with our paper plates in hand: two pieces of white bread packs
of mayo, mustard and ketchup. There are tongs to grab the fixings: water runs
down the spine of the washed lettuce; it arches like a back snapping
out of nightmare. Sliced tomatoes bleed into the foil pan holding them.
The Spicy Nacho Doritos rub against the pink ripple of meat peeking
from between the bread slices. After every two or three deaths,
we are invited to grieve-eat ham sandwiches. I sit at a roundtable
and struggle to open my bag of chips between each microphoned voice
that laments another loss. How we’ve come together once more to eat
all that we cannot bury.
A man holds a mic like an ice cream cone:
“I mean, I guess I’d be willing to die if I had to.”
He tugs at the bottom of his untucked purple polo shirt.
I thought the food would taste better.
When I am sad, the voices in my head are louder. In my mouth,
the chips sound like someone walking on loose gravel. My people
need to crunch up. It’s crunch or never.I’d rather crunch on my feet
Than live on my knees. It seems I might miss the revolution eating
state school-sponsored snacks. A white woman from the campus mental health clinic
offers counseling services. She stutters and then fades into the wall as if to make
space for Marvin as he croons his famous question into the speakers.
I’ll tell you what’s going on: the lemonade is too sweet for such an occasion.
I’d rather drink water. Cheesy stardust bruises the tips of my fingers.
It smears onto every surface I touch. I am marked. Lord, people are dying
and the only evidence of my mourning are these party hands.
What a bright color against these deep black blues.
I have to be honest. I only came because I was hungry.
--
This poem previously appeared in A Brief Biography of My Name(Ashic Books/African Poetry Book Fund, 2018)
Yalie Kamara is also the author of When The Living Sing (Ledge Mule Press, 2017)
Listen to Yalie Kamara reading this poem on this episode of Earth Eats.
