Since throwing off the French yoke of slavery and imperialism, Haiti has been a place besieged — by white supremacist fear, economic injustice, geopolitical isolation, and meteorological devastation. In Jean D’Amérique’s book-length poem, No Way in the Skin without This Bloody Embrace, from which these poems are excerpted, this state of struggle is reflected not only in the poems, which meditate on the bloody embraces of history, capitalism, disaster, and more, but also in the form — the margins are so strict and consistent that they often break words in half. As we see, though, in the fourth excerpt here, when ‘burnish’ is broken, the ‘burn’ within it is revealed. For D’Amérique, breakage doesn’t necessarily mean loss. In fact, abundance in the face of paucity is the modus operandi of his work. The richness of his vision defies the straits history assumes his nation is in. The dexterity of his wordplay belies the reduced material circumstances the “developed world” has foisted upon him. And the emotional complexity, of loving “among a growing pile of corpses,” of being a sponge transforming rot into diamonds, reminds us that though circumstances may impact us, they do not determine who we are or how we act, nor do they reduce the power of a love that sees death as just another constraint that instead of surrendering to we can work around. — Conor Bracken
/ / / / /
for a being mixed with my own
Taking you for half, I invest in the beauty of the
sky. Hunk of light that cuts the seasons open in order
to live within time. I am bled by the jealousy of
clouds until I lose the taste for blue. My pupils
darken, I don’t drink any more coffee down here,
the sky is a huge blue coffee from which dangles
your warm metaphor, which is so beautiful it wounds
the world’s pages. The clouds are jealous. Out of it,
the clouds have developed the habit of gathering
together a horde of squalls, hurling large holes
through your footsteps.
*
The sirens’ song provides an abridged idea of your
voice. You’re still this broken shimmer tormenting
the mirror of the banality of men. Your eyes are
cathedrals birthed by the sighs of moonlight,
that enormous sponge sucking up the world’s rot
to then spew it out in diamantine rays. Soldier
shredded by vital ammo, to lower the stars I steer
your eyes.
*
To provide a living tongue, graft a mouth to these
lips that give rise to rain. To spread myself across
the intersection. No paradox if in the volcano we
find something to wash ourselves with
the entirety of time in my hand
the entire sum of water in my mouth
I am witness to the whirlwind in your lap
*
And when your music deserts me, words burn-
ish me. My skin’s phrase slips into interruption.
All the while outside anonymous bodies search
for embraces to name. All the while outside havoc
hacks a path before its name arrives. While I, I buff
the gulag of words.
*
I’d like to flow on the other side of my erogenous
waves, step out of myself to better welcome a couple
caresses. But I am only good for rubbing against, just
good enough to erode my fortress of flesh. I burn
these hands, I am burning my hands.
*
if I say no
to the cool whiffs
and total aroma of breath
it’s because I’m getting ready
tearing out the windows
of my lungs
throat tightened so I can love you
among the growing piles of corpses
*
who said
a corpse is nothing but dust
and that the wind of death
out-shouts every other gust
if some day you die
I will steal the Zodiac
from the kids of the streets in my city
to reel you back
into the body of cars
/ / / / /
à un être mêlé au mien
Te prenant pour moitié, j’investis dans la beauté du
ciel. Paquet de lumière qui tranche les saisons pour
habiter le temps. Je suis saigné par la jalousie des
nuages jusqu’à perdre le goût du bleu. Mes pupilles
sombrent, je ne bois plus de café d’ici-bas, le ciel
est un grand café tout bleu où se pend ta chaude
métaphore, ta métaphore si belle à blesser les pages
du monde. Les nuages sont jaloux. Par jalousie,
les nuages prennent l’habitude de convoquer une
cohorte de grains de pluie, jetant de grands trous
dans tes pas.
*
Le chant des sirènes donne une courte idée de ta
voix. Tu demeures reflet cassé qui tourmente le
miroir de la platitude des hommes. Tes yeux sont
cathédrales exauçant le soupir des clairs de lune,
immense éponge buvant tout le pourri du monde
pour s’épancher en rayons diamantés. Soldat troué
de balles vitales, à descendre les étoiles je braque tes
yeux.
*
Donner langue vivante, greffer bouche à ces
lèvres qui donnent lieu à la pluie. M’étaler dans
l’intersection. Paradoxe aucun si du volcan nous
trouvons de quoi nous laver
toute éternité dans ma main
toute eau sur ma gueule
je suis témoin de ta tempête pubienne
*
Et quand ta musique me déserte, les mots m’enfer-
ment. La phrase de ma peau gicle dans l’inachevé.
Tandis que dehors des corps anonymes cherchent
étreintes à nommer. Tandis que dehors des fracas se
frayent un chemin avant la lettre. Moi je peaufine la
prison des mots.
J’aimerais m’écouler par-delà mes flots érogènes,
m’écartant de moi-même pour mieux gagner les
caresses. Mais je ne suis bon qu’à frotter, je ne suis
bon qu’à éroder mon château de chair. Je me brûle
les mains, je me brûle les mains.
*
si je dis non
aux relents frais
et à l’arôme intact du souffle
c’est que je me prépare
en arrachant les fenêtres
de mes poumons
gorge serrée pour t’aimer
dans les amoncellements de cadavres
*
qui a dit
qu’un cadavre n’est que poussière
et que le vent de la mort
gagne à tous les coups
si tu meurs un jour
je volerai la vedette
aux enfants de rues de ma ville
pour te repêcher
dans le corps des voitures
* * *
To acquire a copy of No Way in the Skin without This Bloody Embrace by Jean D’Amérique, click here to visit the book’s page at Ugly Duckling Presse.