Amber Atiya
or the time ol’ snaggle-tooth told that woodpecker head ass
dyke she saw me standing over her 2 am hexing her skin
and bones under that linty shelter blanket. How when my
limbs been stiff as crow’s feet? Had to pay a bitch the price
of a three piece to remove my wig and wrap my head
before bed check. Imagine me almighty, spinning spells
on a stud in a different dorm on a different floor. The girls
called me witchdoctor. My case worker called me witch
doctor in the gum-speckled elevator, feigning fright.
Sloppy Joe offered a buck for a custom curse. Requests
poured in for boyfriends, girlfriends, a two bedroom
for a mother of twins, a death wish for the ex who hot
ironed her face, my cot fragrant with lesioned Cara
Caras, half-drunk nutcracker tossed in a boot, pack
of Hanes tanks on the sill. All I want is my mother
fucking Roy Ayers tee snatched from the laundry
room while I peed, a sad sorceress, broccoli floret
mashed into shirt like a logo. How I tell a woman
too traumatized to iron her clothes I don’t know
the mojo to stop a man’s heart, but I can teach her
what I recall of the music scale – do-mi-sol-mi-
do – treat her to sweet plantains, make an
opus of the school kids, dark heads bobbing.
Blue notes outrunning the cage of the staff.
Bed #3-074 talks shyt about her dorm mate in the backyard after snacks
You know how Mario runs into the mushroom and becomes Super
Mario? Well this bitch became Super Q or Super Ti-Ti or whatever
the fuck her name is, thas how fat she was when she came back
from the pysch ward. It’s the meds, and there’s enough meds in this
motherfucker to put the whole city to sleep. Either you a zombie
chuggin Abilify or you beat-boxin fully clothed in the shower, water
collectin in the hooda your sweater til the hood saggin like a big
gray titty fulla water insteada milk. Now the zombie done had
a dream and wanna visit the sixteen chapel cause the pope
the pope the pope, like she his side piece, when there’s a church
down the street that serves pernil every other Sunday. As for
dreams my last trapped me in a snow globe and even though
the snow was fake i froze to death outside a gingerbread house.
I liked the zombie better air-lickin stars, pitchin rocks at the
perverts from the autobody shop. She told me once these hoes
at the shelter fuck wit you, I beat they ass. Her name Sugar.
Cookie. Cherry. Some sweetness – and she meant that shyt too.
Amber Atiya, a supportive housing and women's rights advocate, is a multidisciplinary poet from Brooklyn. Dig on her poems in the Soul Sister Revue Poetry Compilation, Boston Review, Gulf Coast Journal, and elsewhere. Her visual and text-based art/objects have been exhibited at the Knockdown Center, Bessie's Brooklyn, and Pace Univeristy. A 2021 recipient of the Oscar Williams and Gene Derwood Award, she is a member of an arts collective for women of color celebrating 20 years in 2022. Her chapbook, the fierce bums of doo-wop, was published by Argos Books.