Today’s choice

Previous poems

Kweku Abimbola

 

 

Dance With My Father
after Luther

I never danced with my father
more so beside him, sometimes
across in the clock face
of summer dance circles.

My father walks backwards
better than most walk forward—
so whenever he sewed his steps into the living
room carpet, I rushed to mirror my moon-
walking, until he froze,
froze like he’d been caught
by the beat.

But eventually, every good beat
releases, thawing him
allowing a new current to jolt his right heel
lick his leg, startle
his hips
jimmie his torso, electrocute
his shoulders before
departing through his fingertips.

Then he’d leave his hand dangling, dangling
close enough for me to touch
but we never touched— only the illusion of—
and that’s the trick,

and the trick continues through my body:
elbows, navel,
neck, and fingertips
till it’s my turn to pass the zap to you:

You see my hand, are you ready? Ready
to mimic what it’s like
to be held
and to make it look so good
make it look so clean
your audience will beg you
to do it
again!

 

 

Born in the Gambia, Kweku Abimbola earned his MFA in poetry from the University of Michigan’s Helen Zell Writers’ Program. He is of Gambian, Ghanaian, Nigerian, and Sierra Leonean descent.

Abimbola’s first full-length poetry collection, Saltwater Demands a Psalm, was published by Graywolf Press in 2023. The début collection was selected by Tyehimba Jess to receive the Academy of American Poets’ First Book Award. In 2024, Saltwater also received a gold medal Florida Book Award and the inaugural Nossrat Yassini Poetry Prize. His work interrogates the intersections of West African spirituality, ethnomusicology, cultural expression, and poetics to appreciate the legacies of Black literature on a global scale.

He has worked as a teaching artist for the Detroit-based literary nonprofit Inside Out Literary Arts and lectured in English and Creative Writing at the University of Michigan. Abimbola is currently an Assistant Professor of English and Creative Writing at Loyola Marymount University. He is also the Poet Laureate of El Segundo, California.
www.kwekuabimbola.com

Pat Edwards

Pat Edwards

He is in white-out, stopped in his tracks,
dying for the comfort of a fag.
He makes a chalice around the flame,
hands becoming shield so he can light up.

Pamilerin Jacob

Annette the gap-toothed,
You kissed a man & I was born. You gave him
your laughter & he built an empire,

Nathan Evans

If they ask where I am, tell them: I am
wintering. I have secreted small acorns
of sadness in crevices of gnarled limbs
and shall be savouring their bitternesses
on the back of my tongue until the days
lengthen.

Jim Ferguson

we can travel anywhere
she winks, but let’s rest here
in amongst these words
a moment can take a while

Gabrielle Meadows

I am tearing the peel from an orange gently and somewhere
Far away a tree falls in a forest and we
don’t hear it but the ground does and the birds do

Hongwei Bao

Every five minutes it does its job,
hoovers every inch of her memory,
declutters all pains and sorrows.

Gary Day

And once the father frowned
As the boy struggled to fasten
The drawbridge on his fort.
‘He’ll never be any good
With his hands’ he declared,
As if the boy wasn’t there.

Royal Rhodes

Perhaps the friends of Lazarus, who died
and slipped his shroud, on seeing him might swoon
or rush to hear the tales of that beyond
they hoped and feared to face.