Aaron Samuels
Translating Jacob
after Jeanann Verlee
I watched him cut open a rock with his teeth
there were twenty emerald mountaintops trapped inside,
scratching at the walls with their knuckles, which means
there is always a chance for escape.
The escape means I don’t feel at home anywhere;
our bedrooms had windows too high to land from.
The holes in his wall mean he is strong: a tree trunk
crawling towards the edge of the sidewalk.
The white walls mean he is not strong
enough, that even a rock can become its own prisoner.
His eyes, mean that there will always be colors
I cannot see. Jacob means I will never be alone,
his face means my face
will always have a companion,
his cornrows mean I had cornrows two years prior,
means he had to wait
until he wasn’t copying me. His clothing
means my clothing, heavy, baggy, fits neither of us―
perfect. He means I. Jacob will always mean I
can never leave, again―means I already left
years ago,
Jacob, his body in a locked room; it doubled in size
in four weeks, his body that is. Delayed metabolism
means he swallowed twenty little mountaintops
each day; they bring them in a small plastic rock
with water. Visit means I may not come back,
means my brother may not come back. I’m sorry
means I will come back at least one more time;
our skin is connected: a stretched wire
rope between our eyes―
glistening geodes, hair quartz and calcite.
Jacob means if you abandon something long enough,
it may harden into something beautiful,
a polished stone.
Aaron Samuels, raised in Providence, Rhode Island by a Jewish mother and a Black father, is a Cave Canem Fellow and a nationally acclaimed performer. His work has been nominated for a Pushcart, featured on TV One’s Verses & Flow, and has appeared in many journals including Tidal Basin Review and Muzzle Magazine. His next book Yarmulkes & Fitted Caps will be released by Write Bloody Publishing,
Fall 2013.
Return to September 2013 Edition
after Jeanann Verlee
I watched him cut open a rock with his teeth
there were twenty emerald mountaintops trapped inside,
scratching at the walls with their knuckles, which means
there is always a chance for escape.
The escape means I don’t feel at home anywhere;
our bedrooms had windows too high to land from.
The holes in his wall mean he is strong: a tree trunk
crawling towards the edge of the sidewalk.
The white walls mean he is not strong
enough, that even a rock can become its own prisoner.
His eyes, mean that there will always be colors
I cannot see. Jacob means I will never be alone,
his face means my face
will always have a companion,
his cornrows mean I had cornrows two years prior,
means he had to wait
until he wasn’t copying me. His clothing
means my clothing, heavy, baggy, fits neither of us―
perfect. He means I. Jacob will always mean I
can never leave, again―means I already left
years ago,
Jacob, his body in a locked room; it doubled in size
in four weeks, his body that is. Delayed metabolism
means he swallowed twenty little mountaintops
each day; they bring them in a small plastic rock
with water. Visit means I may not come back,
means my brother may not come back. I’m sorry
means I will come back at least one more time;
our skin is connected: a stretched wire
rope between our eyes―
glistening geodes, hair quartz and calcite.
Jacob means if you abandon something long enough,
it may harden into something beautiful,
a polished stone.
Aaron Samuels, raised in Providence, Rhode Island by a Jewish mother and a Black father, is a Cave Canem Fellow and a nationally acclaimed performer. His work has been nominated for a Pushcart, featured on TV One’s Verses & Flow, and has appeared in many journals including Tidal Basin Review and Muzzle Magazine. His next book Yarmulkes & Fitted Caps will be released by Write Bloody Publishing,
Fall 2013.
Return to September 2013 Edition