Three Poems by Toti O’Brien

With Proper Care – Written ‘In Synergy’ with Fana Babadayo’s artwork (lowest one on the page) 

Remember which is your tambourine. 
Would be wise to tie a colorful ribbon
to the frame. Unless, yours is already
marked—a friend painted a glowing 
sun on the skin—the frame was nicely 
engraved with a wood-burner.

Careful, around your tambourine.
You were told how fingers get
easily stuck within the slants. 
Someone pulls. Your hand cannot 
disentangle. Fingers get disjointed
or cracked. 

Careful, with your tambourine. 
A musical weapon. You were 
warned about the rattles’ sharp edges 
—how they slash, like razors. 
When you wag it, carried by the 
impetus of dance, be ware, darling. 

The more things you attach 
to your tambourine, the louder 
it gets—and more dangerous. 
Waterfalls of jingles. 
Hurricane of sound. 
Thousands twittering sparrows.

You should carry it in a soft bag, 
wear it loose across your shoulder.
Hear how it echoes your step 
as it swings, gently nudging your
hip. Wrap it softly, carefully. Mark 
it with a colorful ribbon. Unless.

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The Night that Concettina – Written ‘In Synergy’ with J Michael Walkers’ Anita shows her feelings 

Passed the balcony. 
It’s porous. 
It is an open door.

Open work, like the lacy borders you embroider with fine,
meticulous stiches as you sit on a low wicker chair, always
under strict supervision. 

Sometimes you lift your head, struck by exhilaration, stare 
at something—a butterfly, a rosebud about to bloom open
on the veranda, or else something unseen, like a distant star.

“I will open it up,” you scream with your shrill soprano, 
then you paint it on linen with colored thread—small, 
meticulous stitches. 

The night when you passed the balcony and fell (your knees
were scraped when they found you, but you didn’t complain) 
was embalmed, as always.

Jasmine and citrus trees spilled their toxins—sweet poison, 
drowning the pungency of sea salt and its breezy wisdom.
Drunk with freedom and smell, you roamed through the orchards

aiming towards the fence, down there, lost within an ocean 
of green. The next morning, when they found you
you were wandering still, a smile floating on your face. 

There was blood on your nightgown, together with stains 
of grass and dirt. “He was nice,” you repeated. 
Then the doctor came. “He was nice.”

They looked for nobody. There would be no sequels. If your 
brain had stopped growing at five, so had your womb, I guess. 
Did they switch you to a non-balcony room. 

Did they increase surveillance. 
I don’t know why I have this vision of nettles pricking your skin,
that night. A bed, a blanket of nettles. 

And you liked it as I would have, that tickle, 
that delicate 
sting.               

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Ferragosto – Written ‘In Synergy’ with J Michael Walker’s I’ve weathered storms and fires foreseen

One hand on the rail, the other holding—
Girl, put your suitcase down. 
You have come home for the summer. 
You will not return to the boarding school until—

Perfect timing. Have a cup of water. At sunset 
we will be on our way to the sanctuary. The journey 
will take all night. The entire village will go, single-
filing on narrow, slippery trails. 

The old will have canes. Babies will be in mothers’ arms. 
Small kids will ride uncles and dads. The whole village 
will march ahead. We will follow at a leisurely 
pace. We will have helpers, a mule.

They will carry food. Tomorrow, picnics will be spread 
on the scanty grass scorched by the August sun, or on
lava stone, as we’ll look at the huge expanse of two 
different oceans. 

In the tiny church, the Virgin stands on two dolphins— 
her dress sparkling blue—like a circus artist. All is 
wind and salt, dotted with speckles of yellow Sahara 
sand—a scattered eucharist.

We will commune on olives, bread, eggplants. Boiled 
eggs, almond cookies. Wine is the color of clotted blood. 
We’ll commune with villagers, but aside, 
in the shade and on softer ground. 

All day, there will be rosaries and masses. At sunset, fires
will start. They will last all night and accompany us, as 
we’ll slowly descend. Kids will scream with joy while 
the old will quiver, remembering bombs. 

Fireworks will thunder all night—a deep rumble
then a lingering wail, like an echo, and the smell of smoke.
Songs will shyly interlude. Virgin songs. 
We won’t join the chorus. 

Look at the exploding sky, how it splits open, then scars,
splits open, then scars. Be ware. This is a time for asking 
grace. Time for secret offering, mute confessions. 
Be ware. It’s the night for bargaining miracles. 

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