Bonita Penn
Death Doula’s Song
'Dying has become foreign to us and it’s having some devastating effects. Because we don’t know what death looks like, what it sounds like, what it feels like, it has given rise to a lot of fear and anxiety'- Mariam Ardati, death doula death, we know is an unknown but confirmed destiny, but if i could, let me be ready. i would want my going home, met with joy, with goodbye to this life, and hello to home, with drums, with songs, with doulas that bring life in to this world with warmth and guides you out with as much warmth. light the scented candles, fill the room with flowers and plants that emit fresh air. fill the room with hums, with music from the desert, from the forest, from the mountains, from the jungles, from the west to the north, to the east, to the southern hemispheres. from the concrete streets, from the green grassy yards. let the thunder and lightning sing the chorus of my earthly life, let the moon and sun carry me home. rub my body with my favorite scented oils, massage my face, my arms, my legs, my neck, this ritual. loudly speak lines from my favorite poems. speak loudly lines of my poems that were my favorites. word spoken out of mouths of family, friends to soothe my soul. speak of this better place, a place of no pain, a place of peace, a safe place. a place where happiness jumps excitedly, to greet me. a place where my language is that of all my ancestors; finally, a place where I understand the songs coming off the waves of the atlantic. whisper to me what will be found in this paradise. the treasure that will be mine. you need to know, so you too will be happy. face me towards the sun. i was born under the sun. let my wrapped body find home in the sun’s warmth. allow the sins of my life to disintegrate out an opened window as the sage burns, scent of my mother's fresh baked cinnamon buns. this is not a death trip but a pilgrimage to the promise land. that place I was promised. send me in my death wrap, of silks and soft cotton dyed in shades of purple, orange, yellow and indigo, wrap me from head to toe, with cotton tassel ties at the head, waist, and feet. let the hums of the end of life doula weave with yours. sing me to that beautiful place.
Dreams of Drowning in Green Rivers
fear of the
ocean
not afraid, we
will
drown, but heavy
with
anxiety,
that
we will, adapt
and
travel the
ocean
floors filled with
micro
-cells of
ancestors,
-will be the air
we breathe as
we settle on
the ocean’s
floor-
who we were taught
did not
survive, but
drowned with
bones scattered,
on the
ocean’s floor
from the
coast of Africa
to
the dampness of
low
-land islands,
a fruitage
of angel, and
blue
bottle trees.
The Reckoning
today the learning and the breaking becomes another hashtag. appropriation. but folks eat it up like it is 100%. today the wanting to cite african in america history, before, would never admit to reading, liking, any amiri baraka poem, some even the flaming tongue of james baldwin was only whispered in closed rooms. or poets who have names but are stifled, or poets who have been cancelled but their words echo still. or still too afraid to say the word motherfucker, but love to whip the words bitch, shit, pussy and dick. for those who follow toasted sesame seed bread crumbs into the darkness, but not into the dark darkness, but only to the line where the light is dim, but still lit enough to see the safety of its dawn. cause to stand in darkness is still too much a real revolution and they still not ready to break free or call a motherfucker motherfucker, cause they want to write to teach to be part of those other somethings. or those who been black since birth, now admitting, their hair is nappy, or straight-up they didn’t wake up like this, cause it is relaxed. we always confuse about what is and what is not acceptable black or woke or black or woke or black or to be a human being. some want to fit in all the spaces. heck all these hips and ass is too big for most spaces, and so i take up comfortably large spaces everywhere my black ass goes, and it is the heavy hips that balance this earth. rock on sistas. smile and, put your hands on your hips and let your backbone slip. let the world fall and find its own way out of its darkness. cause we about to walk out this motherfucker into the light. walk on. rock on. walk on, rock on.
Bonita Lee Penn is a Pittsburgh poet, editor, literary curator, creative writing facilitator, and author of the chapbook, Every Morning A Foot Is Looking for My Neck (Central Square Press 2019). Her work has appeared in joINT. Literary Magazine, Hot Metal Bridge Journal, The Massachusetts Review, The Skinny Poetry Journal, Women Studies Quarterly, Voices from the Attic Anthology, Solstice: A Magazine of Diverse Voices, and her work is forthcoming in several anthologies. Her poem Nina’s Fire: Frantic Go-Go was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She is currently working on a collection of poetry exploring modern-day religious practices and there connection to African spirituality.
