Amira’s Stunt Double
after Todd Dillard
Bored of all the grief I vomit on her
in my metaphoric poems, Mommy hires
a stunt double: same forehead scar,
same fiery laugh, same bald head, same cancer.
Now when I write “Mommy curls like orange rinds”
it’s her stunt double pretzeling itself in a fruit smoothie.
When I write “On Friday’s my mother sheds the skin of
my mother revealing more mother”
it’s her stunt double who unbuttons her body,
stands there all double mastectomy and fascia,
waiting for the next cue card. “How much are you paid?”
I ask. Mommy’s stunt double remains mute,
places one of those familiar salty tasali treats
in her tongueless mouth, cracks the shell with
her veneer incisors, totally off cue. Much too messily
and amateur, not enough fiery laughter between
salt rimming the edge of her cracked lips. “I’m new here,”
the double telepathizes. So she doesn’t braid my hair,
doesn’t have the same beady gusto in her eyes.
All pupil, a shade too light. Her scent: freshly printed
paper and five sprays of J’Adore.
Mommy spritzed only three.
Shams Alkamil is a Sudanese poet who has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes. She speaks on her struggles of queerness, the immigrant experience, and race. Her newest book is When Time is Circular (Broadstone Books, 2024).