BODY IMAGE Poem: If I give a man a pen, by Elizabeth Ajumobi

Could he sketch the bruised hollows under my eyes,
The way the world leans heavy, like a black curtain drawn too close?
Could he map the topography of my pain,
Of a history bound to skin, dark as the sediment
Gathered at low tide where corals gleam like hounds’ teeth,
Jagged and edged, eager for love that’s always too sharp?

I met him when he wanted to be Malcolm,
But his heart was too sweet, beating in the rhythm of the talking drum,
As if swallowing the Red Sea, trying to cleanse white grits from his gums.
But evolution made prey of him,
Eyes wide, almost on the side of his head, like cattle—
Like prey, forever adapting to survive a gaze that makes him whole yet stripped,
That lingers too long, forcing his softness to harden,
A ght waged on the quiet battleeld of Black skin.

Could he write of that split-second ache
When I catch his gaze?
Would he let that ink ood the page, spreading warm like mist in a hot shower,
Let it trace the mole on my lip, a constellation he worships,
Soft armor he leans against, feeling the expanse of something divine?
Could his words carry the weight, more than his hands ever could,
A dam of love deep enough to make room for every jagged corner of us?
Or would he stop at the surface, afraid to drown in the depths he has yet to conquer?

When I leave, would his veins empty?
Would he crumble like parched earth stripped of its sun,
A soul grown thin without the warmth it once held?
If I gave him the pen, the endless pages,
Would he write until his hands trembled,
Filling each line with the love and reverence he sees in me,
With the resilience of reef and the reverence of tide,
Where love blooms unbound, an open wound healed by the ink of his words?

In the middle of the night, between the peace of sunset and the war of dawn,
I met him there, his face marked with acne scars and gems of unspoken dreams,
His hands—cracked yet tender—anointing my skin like sacrament,
Leaving prints that whisper, “I see you, in all the places you hide.”
Would his words mirror that? Would he let love spill from the bottle,
A pool that never recedes, lling our silences with the truth of who we are?
For in each line he pens, there is a promise unfurling, a love owering,
Soft as moonlight, raw as reef, an endless verse in love without end.

I met him when he wanted to be Malcolm,
But his heart was too sweet, beating in the rhythm of the talking drum,
As if swallowing the Red Sea, trying to cleanse white grits from his gums.
But evolution made prey of him,
Eyes wide, almost on the side of his head, like cattle—
Like prey, forever adapting to survive a gaze that makes him whole yet stripped,
That lingers too long, forcing his softness to harden,
A ght waged on the quiet battleeld of Black skin.

Could he write of that split-second ache
When I catch his gaze?

Would he let that ink ood the page, spreading warm like mist in a hot shower,
Let it trace the mole on my lip, a constellation he worships,
Soft armor he leans against, feeling the expanse of something divine?
Could his words carry the weight, more than his hands ever could,
A dam of love deep enough to make room for every jagged corner of us?
Or would he stop at the surface, afraid to drown in the depths he has yet to conquer?

When I leave, would his veins empty?
Would he crumble like parched earth stripped of its sun,
A soul grown thin without the warmth it once held?
If I gave him the pen, the endless pages,
Would he write until his hands trembled,
Filling each line with the love and reverence he sees in me,