Krs10 the Tomahawk.
I am an artist. My happiness is not marketable. I choose it anyway.
My mother says I was born in a loud room
where a curtain was the only amniotic sac separating us
from another woman and her child.
She tells me women used to saunter into the hospital room
at night, telling stories, sharing glasses of cranberry juice and
hospital food, laughing until the nurse shimmied in and slung her
hands on her hips. All while my mother stayed silent and softly
bursting from her light blue hospital gown. I am sure I was cradled
carefully on her chest, listening to the myriad of sounds
from this neighboring mother; her voice traveling into my heart.
Perhaps this is why I like a loud classroom. A loud child. A barking dog.
Perhaps this is where my voice comes from. Precise. Deep. Resistant.
If there is a sandman—if such a myth exists—perhaps he visited us
together in that Poughkeepsie hospital, and sprinkled the sand
of loudness and justice and voice into my eyes, right next to
the spring mist touch of my own mother’s traits, mistaking
these two mothers in one hospital room. Giving birth to my duality
and my latent confusion, my unawareness of where to place
the hand during the national anthem. Chest or at the side?
But the sand man made no mistakes. He carefully flew into
the nursery ward that night. Gazed upon two mothers, and
dealt the cards from his silver hand.
Knowing that they both, somehow, were my own.