To Hang My Soul's Garments Outside to Dry
In Celebration of Annette Hope Billings and National Poetry Month
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Photo by Erik Witsoe on Unsplash
Great poets can be found anywhere. In bookstores, on stages, and in our own backyards. Witness Annette Hope Billings, who grew up and lives in Topeka, Kansas.
Population 127,000, Topeka is the capital of Kansas. The town is known as being the site of the landmark Brown v. Board of Education Supreme Court case, the home of the queer-bashing Westboro Baptist Church, and the location of a Frito-Lay chip factory, among many other mundane things.
Topeka also is the birthplace of one of the most significant poets of the modern era, Gwendolyn Brooks, and it has a vibrant poetry scene.
Among the most well-known and beloved poets of Topeka is Annette—a dear friend who recently became much more than a friend to me. Yes, I’m biased, but you should also know that I loved Annette’s poetry long before I loved her.
Annette’s poems move me in ways no others do. They never shy away from pain, but they always leaven that pain with the perspective of love. Annette is also one of the most exquisite performers of poetry I’ve ever had the joy to witness.
She has published three books of poetry, performed at Tedx, and elsewhere. Read her work. Buy her books. You can find her website here. Below are a couple of my favorite poems and at the bottom are links to a few of her performances.
This first poem speaks to one of the most important reasons many of us write poetry.
Laundry
from A Net Full of Hope
I hang my soul’s garments outside to dry
in the yard, on the line
in front of God and everyone to see—
nosy neighbors,
total strangers,
folks who drive by slowly to gawk.
Deeply-stained articles of my life
just flapping in the breeze--
irregular edges, sewn on patches,
scars soaking up sun,
weary, worn wash with
unmended tears obvious to the naked eye.
I put them out there on purpose,
I hang them on the line in defiance,
I pin them up with premeditation
and I let them fly like flags!
This I do in hopes some splintered spirit will happen by
and see my soul’s laundry looking uncannily like theirs—
ones they are too ashamed to show
and may it release them,
embolden them,
dare them to free their own soul’s apparel
from dark, dank places,
and commit them to fresh air, bright sun
and to drape them in triumph beside mine.
I was introduced to the next poem one night at Speak Easy, a monthly open-mic in Topeka that features everyone from poets laureate to teenagers who’ve never taken a poetry class, but write and speak with disarming honesty. When I heard Annette perform this wonderful persona poem, I cried.
Endless from Just Shy of Stars Before my beautiful brown son left me that night, I drew him to me enfolding him against my breasts. He pulled away in mock disapproval while I tried to plant endless kisses on his grinning face. He tried to wipe every place my lips landed, so in return I kissed him all the more. I spanked his bottom like he was still five, and reminded him mothers always kiss their children like each kiss could be the last. He countered I'd live to kiss him until I was well past one hundred and old enough to be abuela many times. I slipped a folded twenty and three condoms in the back pocket of his jeans. He reached back and laughed at me. I sternly made him swear to use them. He joked he'd certainly spend my money. He grabbed me and we danced the room, a Miami salsa, which I matched him step by step. Be careful tonight, Mijo, I whispered. His reply, Me, Mama? Siempre. He strode, so handsome, out into evening air then turned back to say he'd had a chill. Someone had just walked across his grave. Hours later my phone startled me awake, an odd call. My son's furtive voice rasped, Mama! Did I hear fireworks in the background, then silence as the line went dead? A short drive to The Pulse Nightclub and I arrived well before any sirens; a bloody mayhem met me there, lifeless bodies being ferried outside, then the sight of a profile I knew better than my own and I wailed to see that slain son was mine. I fought paramedics as they arrived and tried to take him from me like I battled newborn nursery staff the miraculous night he was born. My son was dead. There was no treatment better than his mother's loving arms. Before my beautiful brown son left me that night, I drew him to me enfolding him against my breasts. He lay quietly, lifeless against me. I planted endless kisses on his still warm sweet face like those kisses would be my last.
To read a poem by Annette is to be moved. To watch her perform is to transcend. Here are links to two of her performances.
Annette performing What We Allow Lingers in Lawrence, Kansas, earlier this month. The video quality isn’t great, but it’s worth watching. Annette at Tedx.