five poems
by Shon Mapp
Rolling Papers
Translucent sheet, stroked
under thumb. A folded V.
Cradled in the pact
her index & middle fingers
make. Ready for rapture.
To be filled, lapped,
& bound. Shoved
into pockets, dog-
eared by keys. Stuck
in the coin pouch
of her leather wallet,
in the bowel of a handbag
that goes nowhere.
I am paraphernalia–
alight at its peak, an accessory
of need, an ember,
ash after her cupid’s bow.
She tells me
she doesn’t need me
to be anything else. Stay
millimeter thin. Unmade.
Folds to be
whetted. Wetted. Waiting.
Polyglot
i cannot forget
the summer
you dragged me
under. we were
all limbs–
ensnared,
snarled, sargassum
skin, and babbled
bubbles. sunken
in your despair,
you drowned
diacritics
in the well
of my back.
my mother tongue–
lanced in panicked
descent from crest
to trough.
attached by bellies,
an additive
inverse, summed
to nothing, we
devolved–
unintelligible
heaps of yowled
vowels, stressed
s's & guttural
mutter. hallowed
hollow bellows
just exhausted
sounds.
In A World Where We Are Both Plums
We share a bowl,
yet never touch.
Pristine against
rattan slats,
your nightshade skin
seems so smooth,
taut. My teeth long
to pierce it. Lessen
this buffer of air
between us. Forgo
our unblemished skin.
Let us bruise
ourselves
against
each
other.
Tourism Conundrum
Drifting domiciles disrupt
docile port waters. Rupture
marine fluid. Spring
forth sour life seeking
satisfaction. They arrive
desperate to document.
Deaf, in their desecration
of this Lesser Antilles land.
Consume an I-land
of soft life, access actors
who manifest all whims.
There’s magic in this place
and a foul air about them.
Locked in mocking mutualism.
Is it not enemies with benefits
that maintain economies.
Trade in hospitalities.
Leave
your dollars.
Leave
your euros.
Leave
them.
Leave.
The Cricket Bat, The Cou-Cou Stick
smooth wood and swirled grain. like
a miniature bat in the sport you
used to play. fucking wicked wicket.
stolen hours, scorched days, tea breaks
and white sweaters in too hot weather.
sticky with sun or over the stove’s
open flame. you wielded both. knuckled
them tightly in tired palms. traded one
for the other as you’ve gotten older. cornmeal,
grass, okra water–all remind me of you.
BIO: Shon Mapp is a Bajan writer whose pieces explore kinship, identity, and lesbian intimacy. She has had pieces published in Fourteen Poems, Stanchion, HAD, and elsewhere.