mahogany

nefertiti meant “the beautiful
(or perfect) woman has come”
i am afraid to be loved
the way i really want
to be loved
to be beautiful
when our museum
is still
a hypothetical space

mahogany, the third book in erica lewis’s trilogy, grapples frankly with essential questions of survival, loss, and (self-)love, seen through the scrim of Diana Ross’s music (to which the title nods). The loose weave of the scrolls of poetry—unstanza’d, mostly with fewer than five words to the line—eschews anything that might halt the flow. Word units become rungs the reader grips, uncertain what their foot will touch next:

baldwin refused
to hold anyone’s hand
i like to be awake
before the sun is full
be fucking honest
with yourself
shit’s over, whatever it was
it’s gone for good

Teak is native to South Asia, whereas mahogany is found in South America and Africa; both hardwoods are prized for their durable close grain. “teak” and “mahogany”—the titles of the book’s first and third sections, respectively—point to the speaker’s resilience. Loose observations like “there are a lot / of really basic girls here / they kind of look like the ’90s / but unironically” are quickly brought up short:

i refuse to spend
the second half of my life
in ruins
reminded
of this ride
called american guilt

The collection’s epigraph, “first, i must accept me,” hints at the quandary that rives this book, of forging a personal identity without a secure national identity: “america is a tire fire”; “america / is a motherfucker”; “i no longer want / to participate in this thing / called america”; “america you is / a hypocritical nation”; “america makes us all sick.”

mahogany thrums with the word “love,” and that word gains the most force when read as self-love. In the absence of a country, you might as well pledge allegiance to yourself: “the tiredness of not / having the ability to say / i’m not here for america,” lewis writes, and adds “i love this book as i love erica.”