What
is a legacy?
I want to be remembered like a picnic
full of sun and savor and berry sweet
not like a bomb — devastating,
(autographed), quickly forgotten
but we do not control the legacy
as we do not control the poem
once its paper thin wings take flight
let me flutter into your thoughts
with whispers of intifada
let me peel the imperialist papers
from the walls of your mind
let us discover as one what it hides
What will you leave behind?
I want to be remembered like a dream,
even if you wake up in tears,
even though it breaks your heart
I embody the dream, from the river to the shining sea
I consume the dreaming as sustenance
to fuel the body which grows gravid
holding within itself the myriad possibilities
also the urgency to make the imagined real
now, now and sooner even —
ERIKA GILL
Erika Gill (they/them) lives, writes and builds community on unceded Tséstho’e (Cheyenne), Očhéthi Šakówiŋ, hinono’eino’ biito’owu’ (Arapaho), and Núu-agha-tʉvʉ-pʉ̱ (Ute) land in Denver, Colorado. Erika is the Editor in Chief of Alternative Milk Magazine, an independent biannual literary and art magazine. They grew up longest in Victorville, CA, which is notable only in being the filming location of The Hills Have Eyes. Erika’s poetry may be found in Rigorous, MORIA, Birdy, and other spaces. Their first collection of poetry, Lone Yellow Flower, is forthcoming from Querencia Press. Socials: @invariablyso
Why this Knocked Martheaus Out:
Wow, look at the power of a white space break in those opening stanzas. The poem opens with a serene, perhaps familiar moment at the picnic only to be turned--through this white space break--into a reality that some do not have the privilege to ignore: war, genocide, occupation, all the devastating autographs we (by which I mean hegemonic countries) leave. This isn't just a trick of craft, it's a reminder of who "we" are, where we stand, and where "we" don't--where we can't. Then the poem moves into this third stanza where the audience is directly addressed. Sometimes there doesn't need to be mystery or implicitly; sometimes--if you want a poem to stir a reaction--all you need to do is turn upward and ask for it. The speaker relinquishes control and says "here." Here is all the power of reflection, here is all this poem's usefulness, and it's in your / our hands.
In the course of time this poem has sat in my inbox, how many people have been killed or displaced in Palestine, the DRC, India, Myanmar, Ukraine, and Sudan. How many lost dreams, and what work can we do--right now--to help find reality in their dreams for relief and peace? I don't know. And that's perhaps why the ending gets me here. It feels almost rushed--not in a half-thought way, but in a way that makes me feel the speaker drift away when they say "now, now and sooner even—"
Interview:
"Legacy" is an odd word. There are personal, familial, cultural, and historical legacies which are slightly all different from one another, but also so near that it's often hard to draw the line. How should we take the discussion of legacy in this poem?
The word legacy in this poem is meant to be evocative of a familial legacy. I was ruminating on the fact that since I have chosen to not have children, what I will be leaving behind is intangible. This poem is about my hope that my life and work and writing will reflect the person I am and wish to be, and a cultural legacy of resistance and impact on the ongoing injustices in this world.
The poem addresses a "you," but also is held together by this "I" and "we" and their wants. I'm always wondering about who poets are speaking to, and how they think through listening (both how the poem is receiving and being received). How do you think through those questions and how does it come through in your craft?
I think a lot about how my poems may be received. When I address a "you", it is often my idea of a type of reader who may not be sympathetic to my opinions, so the work is meant to be persuasive. I use "we" to garner that sympathy, and to point out that there are commonalities between myself, the "I" in this case, and the reader. I taught a workshop recently with Querencia Press, the publisher of my forthcoming full length, called "Who is the 'You'? Identity and Perspective in Contemporary Poetry" where we explored the use of address as a method of engaging, challenging, and persuading in poetry.
The word that comes up for me when I walk away from this poem is "audacity." I hope applying that word here isn't offensive because I've always thought that the best poems about justice work are the most audacious. How can "we," as poets, as people of color, as queer people, as occupied people, as women be more audacious.
How can one be a more audacious writer? Say what you need to say with your whole chest. Liberation can and should be a bare minimum expectation. Why shouldn't people with marginalized identities expect to be included, accommodated, cared for by society? This subtle, audacious shift in mindset carries risks, certainly. There is a subtle undercurrent of risk, maybe even danger, in demanding a world accept my transness, my Blackness, my conviction that all humans are worthy of care. In my community it's often said that everyone has a different role in acheiving liberation, and mine is to write. It is not useful to anyone if my writing doesn't have impact because I neuter my tone to appease the sensibilities of my oppressors.