Volume 8, August 2013

Malika BookerView Contributor’s Note


When I saw your father, before your birth,
I saw a boulder, its broad chest teetering

on a slope, awkward as his skin stretched
and cracked, losing its old self.

I saw him weigh each decision carefully,
his life mission sharpened like a pencil.

I saw him testing father on his tongue, rolling it
in his mouth like hot liquid and squinting at its burn.

As you stretched your mother’s stomach,
so he stretched. He shed parts to prepare.

I saw a man naked and unsure, rolling daddy
around his tongue, preparing like a raw trumpeter

stretching abstract notes, creating jazz.