Joshua Baker
Fill/Stretch
When the flood comes, hold your breath but hold some rain for later, too. You have not always been who you are right now and won't be him later, either. The water you fear now will be water fill you later. Sometimes, the only difference between death and life is what you use the water for. One day soon or one day back when, you're hidden in the flood where thirst can't reach.
When the famine comes, hold your gasp but hold what you can of the last harvest, too. You have not always been who you are right now and won't be him later, either. The famine you fear now will be the famine stretch you later. Sometimes, the only difference between life and death is how full our hands were when barren wasn't a spell we could prophesy. One day soon or one day back when, you're hidden in the famine where hunger can't reach.
My Mother Would Have Loved You
My mother would have loved you. Or the way I look at you. She might not have accepted us—but
she would have loved you. Or the way I think about you while washing the dishes. Or driving
home. Or dreaming a home with you. Or dreaming a home of you. She would have loved how you
disarm me—how I cover my smile to save face. She would laugh at my blushing—plummed red,
an ode to you. She would love how her baby drapes Joy. How he sees the world a fairy tale. Each
day, a glass slipper or pumpkin carriage away from happily ever after. She would love the way he
dreams—like he had to fight for it or something. Like this softness is a battle scar only a thing
come back from the dead could really know about. She would be happy that her baby died so he
could live. She would be proud that he wants to go back and bring more of the dead back with
him. Proud he ain’t got no shame in it either. She would love the risk. Of a love worth all of
Heaven and Earth—of the gamble in saying so.
Eden, Resolved
I won't be convinced that holding your lover in your arms after a
long week isn't God giving us a piece of paradise back.
A buried hatchet that says even the fallen need Joy, if not more.
A chunk of Eden, even if we've lusted our way out of the entire apple.
There are days that I like to believe that our exile hurt God more
than it hurt us. Days where They would take it back if they could.
But I know the shatter of a lover giving your secrets away.
The eruption born from a lover choosing something else—
someone else—when all you have begged is that they choose
you. I understand the maelstrom come from such denial.
If we are made in God's image, is it foolish to believe
They are made in ours?
Divine with the capacity for a human hurt.
This is why you wait before you move.
Before your anger feeds something darker.
Before your hubris bids betrayal.
Before your pain succeeds in its seduction.
Because you'll hold him.
His warmth is a reason.
You'll sink into his eyes, their own ocean,
and be thankful for the rise and lull of the tide.
Indebted to the moon and the mysteries of her dark art.
When I hold him, I don't always have to be right—
my rage, a softer fire.
Kissing Teeth
I am twenty-three, and I am breathing for the first time. Fish finding water, I drink. I am in preschool and playing house. I am a proud husband to my husband. My heart isn't heavy yet. I am in middle school, falling in love for the first time. Afraid for more than one reason. I am ten. Learned enough to know that "Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve" theology will sting more when I'm older. I'm in first grade and all I want to do is tell him I love him. I'm in seventh grade and I can't stop telling him I love him. After all, he said it back. Who could escape that indulgence? I'm young—indiscriminately aged, but old enough to vow to be alone forever. My penance to a deaf god. I am twenty-five and living in a love worth any crucifixion, speared side and all. I am fourteen and being reprimanded for kissing my teeth. Only girls and gays show attitude that way, and, "you better be neither." I am twenty-three, belly full of secret. Belly full of beg. I am twenty-two, falling in love for the third time. A love worth everything. I am eighteen and suffocating. But weren't we all? Didn't we all pick up grief no one would teach us how to put down?
Tuscaloosa-based poet Joshua Baker is a Huntsville native and MSW graduate from Alabama A&M University. His passions lie in minority mental health and Black, queer advocacy.