Self-Talk

By: Esinam Bediako

I.

Beyond the screen, some mothers drag children

to bunkers while you, in your California queen,

lie quaking cuz you’re frightened of the god-

damn dark. You’re cracked, my friend, always have been

but now the cleft keeps cleaving down the insides,

up the outsides, through the gangliosides

where sickness unlinks chains in gray matter.

Nothing’s happened, yet you snap, synapse tied

together in some false way to make you

fear everything: ants, crows, scales of mildew,

silence, holes packed dense, anything with teeth,

innocent things waxed a sinister hue.

Let’s ask ourselves which came first, the chicken-

shit talking or the yoke that breaks your neck?

II.

Who am I without you giving me

Grief about cracks in the soles of my feet?

I’m under covers

in a room with air thicker than my skin.

I need a mantra.

I try to say something new,

I say something wrong.

I put your words in my mouth, spit them out

to you, still wrong.

I’m taking over. I’m taking care.

I’m taking the boys to the park,

holding hands in a chain

– baby mommy baby –

sunlight tickling their curls.

My boys echo laughter, tossing

and catching a sound sweet enough

to drown out the crows and their caws.

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Esinam Bediako is an English teacher and writer. She holds an MFA in fiction from Sarah Lawrence College. Her work has been pub-lished or is forthcoming in Dark Phrases, Floodwall Magazine, Pink Panther Magazine, Novus, and North American Review. A Ghana-ian-American born and raised in Detroit, she lives in Southern California with her family.