Siphonophore

Gionni Ponce & Elizabeth Upshur

Audio: Gionni Ponce & Elizabeth Upshur read.

After Ghost in a Black Girl’s Throat by Khalisa Rae

the point of a curve
is something falls
back to earth
at the end of it:
the sun being siphoned back
into the ocean,
that wavy shape of a woman’s hips
before hands drop back into your lap

Death is a made up word
with a singular meaning,
but to die is personal, it hurts
every time. This one,
because there was still this to say
heal me
understand where I’m coming from
leave me some instructions
for grieving.

There’s no use asking a ghost—
what could the dead say
that we did not put into their mouths?

his mouth
—ulcerous sores
enlarged organs pressing out
limbs too, swollen twice
over
not everything is a metaphor
in a poem.

I am hurtling towards
my dying father in Michigan
whose breathy chug
will outlive him.
When my dog jumps easily
into his lap, I hate her, too.
Hate her opposite-of-distance
nestled against him,
hands awkward, my throat rasp
at this kind of farewell

he is not yet dead
and I'm already putting
words in his cold mouth,
a ghost at the back of my neck

the point of this one,
siphon grief

While studying different genres in different states, Elizabeth Upshur and Gionni Ponce met at AWP 2017. They quickly bonded over their experiences as BIPOC writers in racialized institutions and a deep love of delicious food, promising to share writing opportunities and celebrate one another’s successes. Since then, they’ve danced together in Louisville, Nashville, Tampa, and D.C. This is their first collaborative work, and they anticipate more to come.

Originally published November 2021 in poiesis 2.2 by w the trees.