This collection of poems is a meditation on the intersections of my identity and experience as a disabled asexual lesbian. Much of the poetry focuses on the experiences of the body in relation to others and the space bodies occupy in disability. The poems alternate between form and free verse as the subject matter calls for it and to highlight the unstructured and structured life of a disabled person. How does chronic illness disrupt shared time? How does sex intersect with pain?

capability

And the oh
that comes with the question
What can you do?

What can I do?

When I was younger, 
I could run.
I could dance for hours.
I could chew without strain.

What can I do?

Holding hands on the metro,
humming to myself,
watching the outside blur,
feet planted on the floor,
swaying.

What can I do?

Hands that cramp from
holding a pencil.
A throat that tires
from talking.

What can I do?

Writing at my computer
for hours,
sitting cross-legged,
back tired from leaning,
composing and feeling.
Supposing.

What can I do?

A voice that falls quiet,
a brain that forgets words
as the mouth speaks them.
Apologies
in monotone.

What can I do?

Close my eyes.
Tired hands clutch 
the comforter.
Wait for the sun to rise
and settle 
into a body restless with pain.

What can I do?

Rest.
Be.

Sapphic

Birthed from my hands, you are tenderly written.
You are coal-dust on dirt, you ache in my lungs.
I cough into my hands, tenderly gasping.
   Infect me with want.

I ride the gallop of feelings in my heart,
call to the North wind to lift me into cold,
bring apples from the tree of knowledge to eat,
    awake through your voice.

Lift me with your thought and heal the persistent
hurt that rings between my ribs with a clanging 
that deafens. Unrealize me - sew me into 
a dream. Keep me here.

Your hands are cool, barely there. Chest rising, swift
fall. I begin to think I unlearned you, though
you were made from my ideals. Wiry black hair, 
    brown skin gleaming bright.

Gold that could not be tarnished, you are every
side of me. You are my eyes, my ears, my lips.
I drink the expanse of your second sight, plead,
    “Let me dream you right.”

bed

I am on my back, letting my limbs sink into the bed;
pillows surround me, a violin cascades sound in my ear,

gently pillowing my synapses, stillness-piercing earring;
the fatigue pulls me down into the earth,

and a fatiguing breath rings through this earthling,
holding fast to my bones, gleaming over skin,

    being held together with skinless shine
disintegration loops circling overhead,

disintegrating songs come apart and reform headily
hands open and close as the sound interprets itself,

    handling the hull of the ship sounding from it,
   full hollow breaking through heaving waves;

the filling of hallowed feeling waving wide in my soul,
I am on my back, letting my limbs sink into my bed

A Moment

Cupped hands full with water. A faucet flowing

cold. Mauve dusk filtering in through the window.

Shards of sunlight piercing the sky as I wait.

    Warmth whispers by me.

I do not let myself be naked, even 

with my aloneness - even then I must be 

clothed. With nudity comes touching. With touching,

    I am soon laid bare.

Knocking at the door. There is someone waiting.

I close my eyes, press the water to my face,

lose myself in the feeling of the cool wet,

    let it stop my breath.

I stay like that, just a moment longer, then 

lift my head. Water runs down my neck, wets my 

collar. I grab a towel and wipe my face, 

soft fibers drying me.

My hairline is damp, baby hairs swept up and 

curling. I pat them down, turn off the faucet.

I look to the door, white and wooden, and I

grasp the knob and twist.

Friday

she takes my soul, slow-like, from my clenched hands

takes the last of me, lays me bare, open

I try to find words but cannot speak

wind brushes against the cavity, cold

but knowledge of the doing keeps me warm

I smile and turn my face toward the light

when I don’t eat I begin to feel light

so I can’t keep love or food in my hands

I roam in blankets to keep myself warm

she tells me to eat, keep myself open

to hunger but I prefer being cold

but she is comfort so I let her speak

it’s been eight months; I miss hearing her speak

I must find ways to make my heart stay light,

keep the loneliness at bay, keep the cold

from encroaching slow upon listless hands

but I like to keep my why windows open

and think about ways that bodies stay warm

the want of a woman’s mouth, wet and warm,

sometimes stifles me until I can’t speak

throat bruised, tongue lolling, mouth gagged and open

I beg my desire to keep its touch light

but it's pulse thrums - I feel it in these hands

because the absence has me aching cold

and yet I want to feel the press of cold

and craving despite a feeling so warm

I watch the gradual tick of clock hands

and wonder and part chapped lips to speak,

lean back, and bask in the fading sun’s light,

breathing, drinking the dusk with eyes open

when I was a child, I’d pick scabs open,

scratching ashy skin, sitting in the cold,

flakes falling in morning’s reflected light

now my skin is covered in butter, warm

now I’m cautious and watch the words I speak

so I can hold my heart in my own hands

keeping this open, keeping her warm

tongue is wet and cold too sluggish to speak

but this work is light and I have two hands

bath

I feel my body most when I am in water.
The universality of the ocean thrums in my skin,

like the universe brought life to my flesh.
A breath for each particle, a sigh for each wave.

Breathing is natural in the water, in the waves.
The air flows fluidly, eagerly into my lungs.

Airy words spoken to covered ears resound.
The muted vibrations spread in the sea.

A voice gone mute from the shock of the cold,
caught in the net of understanding;

catching the fall of tears and understanding
that this is the way it must be.

1

She taps the ash off her cigarette,

looks me in the eye.

I wonder at her smell.

She is a dandelion seed.

She looks me in the eye,

asks if I belong here.

She is a dandelion seed

and I am a heavy rain.

I’d ask if I belong here,

among the pinks and orange,

because I am a heavy rain

that floods the street.

Among the pinks and orange

is where I love,

flooding the streets

of a city overheated.

This is where I love.

She taps the ash off her cigarette

in a city overheated.

I wonder at her smell.

2

Finding comfort in the arms of a woman,

like her embrace was made for my body.

Sweet talks late into the night;

Secrets unveiled sitting on lawnchairs.

It’s as if her embrace were made for my body.

I breathe in the scent of jasmine and sigh.

Secrets unveiled while sitting on lawnchairs,

crickets and frogs chirping by the pond.

I breathe in her jasmine scent and sigh.

A leaf crunches underfoot as I shift.

Crickets and frogs chirp by the pond

as I lean in to hear her whispering.

Leaves crunch under my boots;

it is a warm autumn that we have.

As I lean in to hear her whispering,

I glance at the ring on her finger.

It’s a warm autumn that we have,

full of wishing and wanting.

I glance at the ring on her finger

and I listen to her voice drift into the air.

Full of wishing and wanting,

I dream of cool days and oolong tea.

I listen to her voice drift into the air

and my breath catches.

I dream of cool days and oolong tea,

of finding comfort in the arms of this woman.

I listen to her voice drift into the air

and talk sweetly late into the night.

3

I walk through the river.

Hard rocks press into my feet.

The current pulls at me,

but her hand steadies me.

Hard rocks press into my feet

and I inhale sharply at the pain.

Her hand in mine steadies me

and each step is more sure than the last.

I inhale sharply at the pain,

wonder at the clear sky above.

Each step is more sure than the last

despite the soreness of my soles.

I wonder at the clear sky above,

reveling in the warm press of the sun.

Despite the soreness of my soles,

I think I love this river.

Reveling in the warm press of the sun,

I tilt my head back and smile.

I think I love this river.

There is much more love to come.

Tilting my head back, I smile,

thinking of all the things I’ve loved.

There is much more love to come

as I walk through the river.

4

I’m too tired to lift my head.

She sits by my bed, smiling softly.

I wish I could open my mouth to speak,

but the fatigue is so acute I ache.

She sits by my bed, smiling softly,

stroking my black curls.

The fatigue is so acute I ache

so I cannot manage to smile back.

Stroking my black curls,

she starts to tell me a story.

I cannot manage to smile,

even with the tenderness in her voice.

She starts to tell me a story,

a story of fruit trees and talking birds.

Even with the tenderness in her voice,

I feel like I am not quite there.

The story of fruit trees and talking birds

is a story that fills me.

But I feel like I am not quite there,

despite the pain that rings through my body.

This is a story that fills me.

I am distracted and foggy

because of pain that rings through my body.

It’s all I can do to hold onto her.

I am distracted and foggy,

feeling like my limbs are heavy with water.

I wish I could open my mouth to speak

but I am too tired to even lift my head.

5

The air in the museum is cool.

Art is all around us.

One piece reminds me

of those lost in the middle passage. 

Art is all around us and

I wonder what my ancestors would think;

Those lost in the middle passage

might see this art through me.

I wonder what my ancestors would think

of Wangechi Mutu’s piece.

I hope they see this art through me.

I hold her hand tighter.

This African mermaid languishes.

She is beautiful. She is at peace.

I hold her hand tighter

and think of what we could create.

She is beautiful, at peace,

looking at the art of the diaspora.

I think of what we could create,

think of the art we make with our bodies.

Looking at the art of the diaspora,

I sigh. I will remember this every time

I think of the art we make with our bodies.

I look at her and smile. She is art, too.

so she ran a bath for me

spanish moss between her legs

and I shall taste

gentle as the warmth of the sun in spring

hands at her thighs, parting

tongue circling

being in the green

breathing each other

living

and it would be hours

were it not for the tightness in my jaw,

the stiffness in my back,

my deft hands cramping,

and shoulders fatigued into pain

but she would forgive me

because she knows me

even though I would not forgive myself

a paragraph

The body breathes slowly. The rise and fall of its chest is tender and careful. Brown hands grip the bottom of a cami and tug. Muscles and tendons contract and stretch, pulling the shirt over the body’s head. A shuddering sigh. Lips press together. Arms reach around behind the body, fingers with short nails work to unclasp the fastening of a bra. Shoulders rotate as the straps of the bra fall off and down to the floor. The body’s heart thuds. Its chest feels tight. Hands go to the button of shorts at the waist, slipping the button out of the slit and pulling the zipper down. There’s nausea in the body’s belly. A pressure starts to build in its back from prolonged standing. Fingers hook around the stiff waistline and push the shorts down. Underwear is dragged along with it. The body’s eyes avoid looking down. Feet kick the clothes away. Hands smooth over the belly, pushing against the fat. There is a mirror in front of the body. The body’s eyes gaze at the reflection of its ankles, ankles that are beginning to ache, and it doesn’t look higher. 

Kwame Sound Daniels (xe/xem/xir) is a poet and painter based out of Parkville, MD. Xe are a recent undergrad of Virginia Commonwealth University. Xe have been published with Towson University’s Grub Street Spring 2018 edition. Kwame’s theatre reviews are on Richmond Theatre Critics Circle’s website, artsies.org. Xe are the recipient of the 2021 We’re Still Here Suffering the Silence mini-grant and have been a speaker at the Conference for Community Writing for the Artsies Mentorship Program. Xe are an Anaphora Arts Residency Fellow. Kwame learns plant medicine, hikes, and pickles vegetables in xir spare time. Xir first collection of poetry is coming out mid-2022 through Perennial Press.

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