Emma Jo Black

Tre poesie

 

Nightmare

 

the basilisk screams at the rooster’s crow

begs the sunlight to set it aflame

spare it the sadness of another day

 

the basilisk is lonesome

it slithers down throats

seeks a warmth to curl into

a longing 

or

the shadow of a dream

 

the basilisk trembles in the twilight hours

has no tongue

no heart but the ones it devours

 

remembers only a hand that plucked it once

from a tree bearing fruit

and held it

cradled softly in its palm

 

Living Taxidermy of the Poor

(La Mariposa, Bogotá)

 

they were given paint

to color their mornings bright 

as they returned from their third job

a top coat to disguise 

the pit of hunger in their stomachs

 

there were children there

too weak to run

curled up in the dust of the road 

like something unwanted

dogs and people left to scratch at the plaster

lick the paint of the walls 

in hopes of dreaming in color again

 

they had nothing but they gave everything

made their misery something bearable to look at

so that the tourists could snap pictures 

of the multicolored hills

and all the happy people living in the pretty houses

 

there was a sadness once

a dead-eyed look in the passerby

forgotten where he stood

but then the hills were given wings

and all the chrysalis people;

curled up in sleeping bags in the middle of the highway;

emerged as butterflies

 

their wings were pinned down wide 

for the entire city to see

a living taxidermy of the poor

 

Pygmalion (A Love Poem)

 

hold still, my dear, that I may sculpt you

mould your skin with gentle hands

leave not a single part untouched

darling, see,

how softly I caress your body

smoothing over every crack

 

now, raise your chin

I’ll cut the strings on all the hopes

you’re keeping tethered

drink you in

seat you facing me at dinner

like a landscape—or

a painting—or

a doll

 

hold the pose

watch me strip your flesh from bones

I’ll sculpt you, muse

shape your smile to meet your eyes

slice off the things that keep you up at night

hollow out your emptiness 

till you can’t feel it any longer

 

look at me, I do this for your own good

I’ll paint the twinkle in your eye

make you everything I wanted

crown your head with wildflowers

and call it happiness

you look so lost but you’ll feel safe 

with my arms wrapped around you

 

don’t move, my dear, 

there’s so much yet to do

doubts to chase, scars to erase

I promise, when I’m done with you,

 

you won’t remember who you were 

without me.

 

Emma Jo Black is a 22-year-old poet of Irish, French and American nationalities, currently residing in Paris. They host events at Spoken Word Paris and were recently published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal and The Galway Advertiser. Emma Jo Black has worked with indigenous leaders in Colombia, wept on many Paris bridges and stalked the streets of Dublin as a vampire. Their stage performances combine poetry, physical theatre and drag in order to celebrate the queer and the unknowable in each of us. Bienvenue au Danse, Jo.

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