"While looking at photo albums" by Kay Ulanday Barrett

View this email on a browser Forward to a friend January 8, 2019   While looking at photo albums   Kay Ulanday Barrett

Before everyone died – in my family – first definition I learned was – my mother's maiden name, ULANDAY – which literally means – of the rain – and biology books remind us – the pouring has a pattern –  has purpose  –  namesake means release – for my mother meant, flee – meant leave – know exactly what parts of you – slip away – drained sediment of a body – is how a single mama feels – on the graveyard shift – only god is awake –  is where my  –  family banked itself – a life rooted in rosaries – like nuns in barricade –  scream – People Power – one out of five – leave to a new country – the women in my family hone – in my heart – like checkpoints –  which is what they know – which is like a halt  – not to be confused for – stop – which is what happened to my ma's breath– when she went home – for the last time – I didn't get to –  hold her hand as she died – I said I tried –  just translates to – I couldn't make it – in time – I tell myself  – ocean salt and tear salt – are one and the same – I press my eyes shut – cup ghost howl – cheeks splint wood worn – which is to say – learn to make myself a harbor – anyway – once I saw a pamphlet that said – what to do when your parent is dead –  I couldn't finish reading  –  but I doubt it informs the audience –  what will happen –  which is to say – you will pour your face & hands – & smother your mother's scream on everything – you touch – turn eyelids into oars – go, paddle to find her.            Copyright © 2019 Kay Ulanday Barrett. Used with permission of the author. About This Poem   "This poem was written during a moment when grief took over, when I realized ache wasn't solely about death, but about being in diaspora and the ways loss takes over your lineage, and how a simple mundane act of looking at photo albums can make you swell with emotion. My family is from the Philippines and survived the corruption of the U.S.-Filipino regime during martial law, which led to their forced migration to the United States. The pace of the poem succumbs to pauses and the complexity of frenetic existence. The pauses create an inextricable circuitry in which death and mourning are just every day. Consequently, photo albums are vessels, much like a time capsule. What happens when you are the only one left alive with the archive, the memories, the origin story?" —Kay Ulanday Barrett   Kay Ulanday Barrett is the author of When The Chant Comes (Topside Press, 2016). They are a poet, performer, and educator living in Jersey City, New Jersey. Poetry by Ulanday Barrett   When the Chant Comes (Topside Press, 2016) "Kissing in Vietnamese" by Ocean Vuong "Translation for Mamá" by Richard Blanco "Becoming Ghost" by Cathy Linh Che January Guest Editor: TC Tolbert   Thanks to TC Tolbert, author of Gephyromania (Ahsahta Press, 2014), who curated Poem-a-Day for this month's weekdays. Read a Q&A with Tolbert about their curating approach this month and find out more about our guest editors for the year. Thanks for being a part of the Academy of American Poets community. To learn about other programs, including National Poetry Month, Poem in Your Pocket Day, the annual Poets Forum, and more, visit Poets.org.   You are receiving this e-mail because you elected to subscribe to our mailing list. If you would like to unsubscribe, please click here.   © Academy of American Poets 75 Maiden Lane, Suite 901, New York, NY 10038