only some of them have a companion.
The host looks like a rock star—
black leather jacket, skinny jeans, long hair.
He can’t sing but he “warms us up”
with three songs on his guitar before
the open mic begins.
Out of twelve of us, the only other “poet”
is a white guy with locs called Vegan Warrior,
and his poem compares eating meat
to the transatlantic slave trade. It’s terrible.
I don’t pay much attention to the singers,
partly because I’m nervous, partly because
they’re not very good, and partly jealously
that I don’t sing anymore.
It’s my turn. I step up to the mic and read:
I Come From
I come from shepherd’s pie and Sunday
roast, jerk chicken and stuffed grape leaves.
I come from traveling through taste buds
but loving where I live. I come from
a home that some would call broken.
I come from DIY that never got done.
I come from waiting by the phone
for him to call. I come from waving
the white flag to loneliness. I come from
the rainbow flag and the Union Jack.
I come from a British passport
and an ever-ready suitcase. I come from
jet fuel and fresh coconut water.
I come from crossing oceans