Portia co-opts history
…..
Portia, Portia, damn near white, auburn shoulder-length hair,
Portia lost to the rapture of her skin. Portia’s arms open
and bleeding 14k gold and sweet oils. Portia gathers her body,
and spreads her legs before us, begging to be kissed, tells us,
I love you, as if it wasn’t written across her milky pierced breasts.
Portia, the youngest Portia from a long line of Portias, grabs us
by the wrist, and handcuffs us to this room by the strength
of her voice alone. Portia is a lover, is a slut, is a woman
of valor, is Bathsheba, is Ophelia, is Cleopatra, is Nefertiti,
is Sappho, is known only by her first name, is Maya,
is Myrlie, is Coretta, is Rosa, is a rose of Sharon,
is a lily of the valley, is none of these, was the winner
in the end.
Portia only believed in what she saw and what she saw blinded her,
rendered her mute. She co-opts a history she ain’t never had.
But didn’t I hear her cries from garbage-strewn
sidewalks, from the bowels of roach-infested tenements
with peeling lead-based paint and urine-drenched hallways,
and blood stains on the dance floor, and didn’t I grow up
with those very same icons, didn’t I?
As Portia speaks, we women hold hands in prayer, our only thoughts
for a drink of wine. We are Babylonians; we speak in every tongue,
emeralds fall from our eyes. We all sing, waiting to be born
inside our heads.
Drenched in the sound of her voice, the sea crashes when she talks.
Portia drags us kicking and screaming like a scratched record
from the comfort of our self-hatred and low self-esteem. We’ve learned
to appear strong, to appear hard. We are armed against each other,
separated. Our disfigurement is something only other sistahs recognize,
pretend we do not see. We pray, look away from those who recognize us.
Portia’s is a soft wash of voices chanting on Gullah Island while she
snaps beans and combs nappy heads and greases ashy knees and elbows
and sings hymns and wails a gut bucket of blues, daring every woman
in the room to feed her brain the food of her own history. And so, we let go
of old traumas and receive the blessings and comforts of letting go.
We swallow her speech, wallow in it, wash our bodies in the blood, eat her.
For the first time I recognize myself in Portia’s reflection I see myself,
of Portia I sing. Not placing her above the Creatress, she is twelve steps
beyond the rainbow, she skittles across the grain. And I love myself
because I, too, am Portia, of her flesh, she eats my sins. Amen.
…..
A Litany of SHE Poems weaves together themes of disability, race, and gender of both humans and imaginary creatures with threads of sensuality and sexuality, Christianity and spirituality, deeply-felt love and equally felt lust. Like Sheila and SHE, the characters in these story/poems challenge not only societal norms and expectations but also navigate the complexities of living at the crossroads of multiple marginalizations. Whether exploring love here on earth or there on Mars, illustrating love between Black Mary and her husband G-Man, examining the self-love of their children Sustah or Brutah, or caring about the creature Igboo, each poem invites the reader to explore the transformative journeys that celebrate differences, advocate for equality, and amplify silenced voices. A Litany of SHE Poems is a tapestry of love songs whose melodies reach the highest octaves of the struggles and triumphs of a diverse slice of humanity.
Davida Kilgore is the author of a short story collection, Last Summer and, as Davida Adedjouma, the editor of an award-winning book of poetry, The Palm of My Heart: Poetry by African American Children written by children ages 5-13 who she taught in afterschool programs in St. Paul and Minneapolis. Her work has been produced by SteppingStone Theatre, read on Broadway at Symphony Space, adapted for film, and published nationally and internationally. Davida’s fiction recently appeared in the Water~Stone Review, midnight & indigo, and Fantasy Magazine, her monologues appeared in 2022 Best Women’s Stage Monologues and 2022 Best Men’s Stage Monologues, and her poetry appeared in I Am, I Can: Poetry About African American Minnesotans with Different Abilities, the Blue Collar Review and the anthology Let the Black Women Say Ase’. She has been the recipient of fellowships and grants from the Bush Foundation, the Jerome Foundation, and the Minnesota State Arts Board.
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