Jamondria Harris
Love Story i, ii, and iii
Jamondria Harris
Jamondria Harris is a multimedia artist, utilizing language and experimental music. After writing four chapbooks over the last few years, quaerere (Magic Helicopter Press) is Jamondria’s first full-length work. The book implores the reader to seek, to ask, to desire in a collection of poems written from a black queer prospective.
Jamondria Harris
Love Story i, ii, and iii
Love Story i
the caterpillar shit falls in rain and with air, all day
& all night there is no time where they are not laying
the history of their beauty in eggs or shit or sleeping
in a tomb made of their flesh to burst and ride
color out of the living deluge of what they were
born to feed upon, and be trod under. what patterns
laid on your back pull shadow and bark over
you/towards great heat known dreaming/what did you draw in
through & on your back/towards light unseen
(the people who left the pots on mount Lico were
quiet and in their long silent wandering rose with
the mountain from the plain/they laid in the red soil
& made vessels of themselves for what they had found/
their travels having made a tangle of death & dream to bring
forth children/inextricable from the play of water and shadow
in any eye/ & only ever witnessed by those who bore them)
(the city seen at dusk between the red earth and canopy is
wrung through with monumental, mortarless stone laid
as a serpent has bones to carry itself in and out
of sight. the pale ridges fall to powder along any edge
set and reborn/this pigment is holy to the people on the mountain
it is the only pigment not red as soil or blood and so it is gathered
each evening in the precensce and aftermath of the sun and it
is at this time you may be able to speak to and see the people
hands and mouths filled out from shadow by dust until
they are wound back into their homes that wander the walls )
Love Story ii
when people are speaking i never find
it necessary to watch them , the more
we speak & the closer we become i can barely see you
as that face speaking mainly you are scent-based
and i am thinking about your mouth and
also the secret hair down your belly often
too marks along your shoulder or the
taste of all these things which map your
words through my eyes the closer you become to
me the less I can recognize you in passing
if i have not slept next to you in a while
every day i am not near you there is a little
less of you built and our language
gets further and further from
translation and i am in a place where these
ends do not meet and i will begin again when
there are no more words.
i'll keep things for you,
our children or as a child, like you to me but
as indefinite as you could claim.
I can hold us in until i have no room for food. The key to us
entirely is my shitty memory. everyone I name I
remember in phases, as flesh split
layer upon layer into glass & a taxonomy
lesson. I will never stop knowing you, or how
to slide you into one body:
translucent, enumerated
such that you & I and all know what you are. i talk about my hair when i want
you to have the intimacy of knowledge
of my hair with your mouth or your hands.
i am as embedded in my hair as any
dirt. i have grown into my hair as much as
brass cuffs and what i could not wash from
who has been near. if i want you, i want you to
touch my hair in shaping desire, noting
perfection of disparate parts.my hair is not curious and is not a curiosity
there is nothing to be satiated in the touch, i would have you seek
and wake seeking enfolded in what comes from me.
Love Story iii
in this /elsewhere 10,000 years/
i take the most time thinking a body,
and do not name,
lives like fire ants in the flood: bound and bitten & brought under as many as possible
until some soil ruts, forces beyond you dam the obscure origins of water & to you &
yours the life of the deluge,
run ancient over before and below, barely alive by any means,
evidence of the incessant escape & infinite ear
right root of
power over & under drives every
mouth and foot in desire of undoing,
in and of demon lack, with no face,
again unbowed and again unborn
with nothing to recognize, without
the lie of memory & same is as same does
in kind there the right root of power over & under drives
every mouth and foot in the desire of undoing, in and of
excess, a million-mirrored ornament, a manifold and infinite
open throat down to come again,through canal, again constrained
into strength enough to be born, again bound into constraints to give birth, again consecrated & same is as same does in kind there the right root of power over
& under drives every mouth and foot in the desire of undoing
the gift becomes the god in song that bears/ the created being/ that did not consent , no more
than a divot in flesh is your true home where you are held, where you are rendered no animal , in the grace of gratuitous drinking and eating in gratitude,
by which you are
no animal, to pass in your pleasure and lie unburied,
unable to reach heaven in the guts of a vulture the high sum of all your steps in no account
the dark is a hand & a half
pressed over the edge of the evening, tucking
us in & together to our skin.i am ready to lie down. I am hungry.when you cannot betray
this to rise same is as
same does in kind
these are perseid attunements/stone from the sky as homes burn & no one can get cut-free from the salt stench of our entanglement/nothing is separate/ is it ever possible/to be touched more than once by your own grace no more than the gift can void this body/ elsewhere 10,000 years/