Curse

Photo: Samantha Sophia

I.

They say: YO! It smells like

straight-up butt in here, son.

Laughter explodes from all

corners of the classroom.

Ayomide shifts his eyes imperceptibly—

cursing his darkness

and the sweat

now bursting from it.

His hood goes up

as he disappears

into his video game.

II.

Why won’t you eat?

Ayo?

He clears off his near-full bowl

of fish and yam stew.

Put that in the fridge.

We aren’t made of money.

Sighs.

And pull up your pants.

You have a belt.

Sucks his teeth.

C’mon . . . bruh . . .

Father rains down: Omo alainibaba!

Enough! Who are you speaking to that way?

Father, I…

Father nothing!

Father, to…

Go.

III.

Dark. Too dark

and different.

In the night

I might disappear completely

and never return.

Maybe if I never speak

they will rally to my friendship.

Maybe if I shed my cursed

native skin – boiling from the inside

with foul otherness

and take up their

hooded shibboleths

they will allow me

to enter their kingdom.

Father, to them

I am a person

unformed.

About the Author

Josh Medsker is a New Jersey poet and teacher, originally from Alaska. His debut collection, Cacophony, was published in 2019 by Alien Buddha Press. His writing has appeared in many publications, including: Contemporary American Voices, The Brooklyn Rail, Haiku Journal, and Red Savina Review. For a complete list of Mr. Medsker's publications, please visit his website. (www.joshmedsker.com)