A man tried to force a Bible into me
again. this time in the back
seat of a volvo, wrecked from water
damage, he convinced me to get into. Upset
I glide over passages.
Make it hard for him
to open me [good woman]
hold him in my mouth.
There is a room with a lower viscosity
I keep entering
floodbare, its waterline etched in heavy walls,
cursory stitched shadows to the belongings left.
I pick up a machete & wander
into the chambers of a tree & tap
the palm from the inside.
I plant a line in my head
& walk on it. those who remember
my face in fragments
will count a redness to my touch.
A history watching
the back of people’s necks
glide in my palm. [soft sweet useless things]
There is a stance I keep
fold myself along
z-axis belly to knee
face into chest
hair gelled into a 35-degrees
z-axis belly into being
*If you’re not careful the saccadic eye will miss
me. take the air above my head for my face
shadow as my feet.
Michelle N’ankra Oppong
Michelle N’ankra Oppong is a poet currently in an MFA program. Her primary focus and thesis are on recontextualizing living spaces such as rooms and houses, through the lens of blackness, identities, mathematical concepts, politics, body, and various sentimentalities.