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JON L PEACOCK

Ode to Akilah Oliver

Picture
Yesterday I told someone my dad had died, which was a lie

I said he’d passed last March, his one-year death count coming up

I said we weren’t close, I wasn’t there when he passed, which will be true

Then I heard about Akilah Oliver, found in her apartment, dead days before

And a poet cried and drank more when he couldn’t talk about

And a friend cancelled classes to mourn and write in peace

And I thought about how it affected me, the little it did

How that probably hit me more than when my dad does die.

Then I remember Akilah on the dance floor, crowded night spot,

Leaning over to the half Greek, white crusted to one nostril,

And shouting how she’s in love with the high school girl, thirty years her younger.

Some might think this memory is a bashing one, but I don’t

It’s my favorite of hers, more than her teaching, even her poetry,

It showed a woman alive in the moment, full of love and excitement

It showed poetry in motion; it showed that Akilah actually lived when she was alive.

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