After the Funeral
I prayed most nights for God to send my Grandfather back.
Prayer; an appeal for an intermediary service ‘tween
my gone-people & me, a parting of
water. Sent petitions signed by myself 1000 times. Twice,
I remember knowing him again,
though he Dead. But what is Dead
but to be without your worn juice?
blood. I've been without before,
have you? Been withhhhhh-
out that which keeps you? Alive,
I know betrayal because my Grandma said,
"He stopped visiting
me in my dreams."
Her weeks had grown thin of
I burned my signatures, hoping he'd return
to her, again. I'm sorry.
a liar. I begged God for another visit, even
after my heart plopped
out my mouth.
bloodless, toothless. Despair,
drains the muscles.
I wanted a father so bad any man would do.
This does not apply to my grandfather. Though,
lineage is a container, Grandpa being
prayed & the still stayed still. Grandma
not gone, but
I worry about her dreams.
She doesn't want to be here & without.
Could you stand sleeping with
hand on the faint imprint of loss?
I reach far away from myself
water. The ship. The way away
from the first from. I ask God
for the first of the Lovelace line,
& call him away from another woman.
"I Turned Myself Into Myself & Was Jesus"
Ego Trippin, Nikki Giovanni
My bones converge to altar / bloated
in bad breathing habits / Bus
a table w/ me, Commandment
1 / Know
the way I shake wool / Get my hair braided
& spend 4 hours in the hands
of another black woman / wrapping each hair round
the other / cause my crown immaculate / while
a man prayed
to me / quivering in need
of my looking / divine on
a cross / My head
thornfull / Till
me his whole fur / I handed him
my head / my hair / I think
that's what Daddy meant / by reciprocity
an inconvenience of need / that leads me
back to me / I don't make the rules I am / Once
the deed / in need of repentance / was done
My funeral was
casket open / Buried
mouth open / gold fronts gaping
as to not mistake / the gates of heaven
the only way in /
For Songs & Contests
I say Anwar & boys
relax their flexed fists. Anwar
taught me to throw hands before
I traced my name in clay.
Flat hand across the face is
power. Throw a punch if a nigga
gets dirty. & she did. Kicked my cousin
in the tender tendon,
sent a shriek
out his mouth slicing
the only girl with hands,
knew my job. One jab
would not do-I learned
to hit in sequence. 1,2,3
& the blood kept leaving.
The watchers report on the brawl:
Clearly a God
was driving her.
-from The Small Door of Your Death (Autumn House Press, 2018), selected by Andrew McFadyen-Ketchum, Founder & Editor
PROMPT: What is a prayer? According to George Herbert it is "the soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage," and that is certainly
true of Sheryl St. Germain's "Prayer for a Son." In this heart-breaking poem, she says a prayer for a dead son,
hoping that his soul can "now be with the creek," and that the "small fish" living there will "nibble
[his] ashes." In other words, a prayer is our most secret, vulnerable longing put into words.
Send your heart on a pilgrimage. Write the prayer you're afraid to write.
BIO: Nabila Lovelace is a born and raised Queens native, as well as a
first generation American. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Narrative Northeast, Washington Square
Review, Day One, ESPNW, & Vinyl. She is co-founder of The Conversation Literary Festival. In her
debut collection, Sons of Achilles, Nabila Lovelace attempts to examine the liminal space between violence and
intimacy. All inquiries or bookings should be sent to firstname.lastname@example.org. NabilaLovelace.com