{"id":1837,"date":"2021-08-12T21:33:22","date_gmt":"2021-08-12T21:33:22","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/sites.rutgers.edu\/writers-house-review\/?page_id=1837"},"modified":"2021-11-26T15:23:45","modified_gmt":"2021-11-26T15:23:45","slug":"1837-2","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/sites.rutgers.edu\/writers-house-review\/volume-2-fall-2021\/1837-2\/","title":{"rendered":"Three Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"

Kyra J. Glover<\/em><\/h4>\n
\n
Allow Me to Reintroduce Myself<\/strong><\/h6>\n

 <\/p>\n

I am Oshun, sister of Yoruba, Yemaya, Oya, Nala.<\/p>\n

I am the daughter of Olodumare, crafted beside sweet waters, sacred groves,<\/p>\n

and carnations as bright as bee stung yellow.<\/p>\n

The Ankh strapped around my anklet fulfills those<\/p>\n

in need and enclosed in tombs with divine beings who believed the earthly<\/p>\n

journey was only a part of eternity.<\/p>\n

Descending into Florida water, I found my Daughters.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I am the dust tracks on a road, that\u2019s been known to preach the color blue right out of the sky.<\/p>\n

I am the cold wet brick crashing through the invisible ceiling meant to contain me.<\/p>\n

I am the gossip passed through lips of liars, good providers, and glorified gamblers<\/p>\n

more important than what\u2019s in the Sunday papers. My personality isn\u2019t meant to survive<\/p>\n

in a world that doesn\u2019t marvel at women jumping at the sun.<\/p>\n

First chance I got, I moved into Harlem to birth a Renaissance.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I am the gap between here and now, saying goodbye to frustration, agony, and despair.<\/p>\n

I am history written in my own words, waving goodbye to all people I wish I had not known.<\/p>\n

I am the love that liberated ego from Kokou<\/p>\n

and settled disputes between Obatala and Oduduwa.<\/p>\n

At seventeen, I took a room with cooking privileges and chose the difference between<\/p>\n

right and wrong. Whenever life knocked me down and made me call it uncle<\/p>\n

I went home. My mother never once told me so.<\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n

Haunting Melody: i know how to hurt you<\/strong><\/h6>\n

 <\/p>\n

i slam the door<\/p>\n

i raise my voice<\/p>\n

i call you names<\/p>\n

i resent you<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

not for leaving hair in the drain,<\/p>\n

not for forgetting to buy groceries,<\/p>\n

not for spending our savings.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

No, I resent you because<\/p>\n

I was rooting for you.<\/p>\n

We were all rooting for you.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

My core is rocked coming<\/p>\n

to this revelation.<\/p>\n

As I pound my fist onto<\/p>\n

the oak table,<\/p>\n

ignoring subtle pain,<\/p>\n

I realize<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I don\u2019t want your secondhand hugs,<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t want your gripe or despair,<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t want your problems.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I want the pieces that are<\/p>\n

invisible to the naked eye.<\/p>\n

I want you to fake it with me<\/p>\n

like you do with your boss.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

You see,<\/p>\n

we lie to the people who hate us.<\/p>\n

We smile at them in the morning.<\/p>\n

We concern ourselves with their well being.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

So, if it\u2019s going to be a lie,<\/p>\n

then lie to me.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I\u2019m the one trying to have breakfast with you.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m the one begging for your gentle touch.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m the one trying to make you understand that,<\/p>\n

come hell or high water, I will still love you.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

There was a time when our love was<\/p>\n

an act of rebellion.<\/p>\n

When women covered in southern sun<\/p>\n

and salt-infused wounds<\/p>\n

rose earlier than their enslaver, mistress,<\/p>\n

and man,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

worked all day without earning a dime,<\/p>\n

came home to primitive shelter,<\/p>\n

built from agony rooted in love.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Warm fires prepared meals<\/p>\n

for a man that had been beaten<\/p>\n

physically, mentally, and spiritually.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

That hot plate a declaration of love<\/p>\n

letting him know that someone cares.<\/p>\n

And he is not alone.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Now standing on the shoulders of<\/p>\n

broom jumpers, Harlem Hell fighters,<\/p>\n

and Hillman graduates,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

you tell me the juice is sour<\/p>\n

yet it was once sweet.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I\u2019ve got my ego, so tears are spared<\/p>\n

but it\u2019s the thought that makes me weak.<\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cRelax, Relate, Release\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

~ After Los Angeles love kinda of like Hussle and Boog by Awol Erizku, 2019<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A widow’s words whisper, I am completely lost<\/p>\n

Not in the sense of physical direction but emotional and spiritual guidance.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She listens to cosmic conversations as she walks the darkest of tunnels, morning, and night.<\/p>\n

The public is watching\u2013always watching for cues, signs, or signals.<\/p>\n

Thirsty for speculation and hungry for headlines.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Snatched from her is soul, sanctuary, and sixtieth street legend.<\/p>\n

Prayers and well wishes will ease the pain kind of<\/p>\n

but not deep enough to fill the void.<\/p>\n

What is a world without you in it?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

An unnatural experience like Martin with no Gina.<\/p>\n

Like Abbott with no Costello.<\/p>\n

Like a beat with no snare.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The physical absence is insufferable.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Stomach in knots, tear ducts full, and heart is empty.<\/p>\n

The pain is hauled around like a pebble in a shoe.<\/p>\n

You are supposed to be Home.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Given the chance, I would run up to heaven\u2019s doors and exchange my life for yours;<\/p>\n

however, I seek like loved ones, comfort in the omnipresence of your spirit.<\/p>\n

One must be quiet to hear that sweet language of the unspoken.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Like all things infinite, you have evolved beyond worldly standards.<\/p>\n

Not bound by a singular dimension.<\/p>\n

Expansive, extensive, and endless,<\/p>\n

you run deep through the universe and fabric of time.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

Kyra J. Glover<\/strong>\u00a0 graduated in May 2021. She is from Trenton, New Jersey, and, in her free time, she likes to watch films as well as write scripts. Her favorite films include the Iron Giant, Coming to America, Dreamgirls, Rocky II, and The Wiz.<\/p>\n

Kyra wrote these pieces in an Advanced Poetry Writing course taught by Susan L. Miller. Miller selected the poems for inclusion in WHR.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Kyra J. Glover Allow Me to Reintroduce Myself   I am Oshun, sister of Yoruba, Yemaya, Oya, Nala. I am the daughter of Olodumare, crafted beside sweet waters, sacred groves, … Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":442,"featured_media":0,"parent":1821,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-1837","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThree Poems - Writers House Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/sites.rutgers.edu\/writers-house-review\/volume-2-fall-2021\/1837-2\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Three Poems - Writers House Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Kyra J. 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