Early-Onset Arthritis

Forgive me, my love,
but my hands will shake
like Aretha Franklin’s falsettos
for the rest of our lives.
They will tremor and tap
at the corner of our evenings.
A few extra pinches of sea salt
in your mom’s pasta recipe.
A few more minutes typing,
you go, girl under our kid’s posts.
A few supplementary “shits”
as I strain with zippers and buttons.

Forgive me, my love,
but I may one day
hurt your hand as I hold it:
shriveling, tightening, aching
around your knuckles.
Your hand, your hand,
becomes harder to let go.

Hugging James Baldwin

At a writer’s conference where his eyes reach
from scratchy shirts and buttons, I find him smoking:
telling stories, reviewing his old whore, Paris.
He’s not bothering with signing. He boogies and ballets with a
brown woman poet; tattoos his smile—his sea-to-sea smile—
to each gospelled heart standing in line. Nearing his table,
I’m holding my Granny’s hand-me-down copy of Giovonni’s Room.
Practicing how to tell his eyes that she died
before she had the chance to cramp herself in that maid’s room,
watch David immerse his passion for Giovanni in a dirty sock pile.
Before she had the chance to, in some way, understand
the gay daughter who gave her the novella.

I’m up. And my nervous chatter chiffs away like dandelion seeds.
I have no idea what I’m saying. Just that my mouth is moving.
“Forgive me,” I stumble out, “but I dripped from your fountain pen.
Your poems, essays, and stories linger in my ear like my grandmother’s voice
quivering over casserole dishes. Tender memories to squeeze as I nuzzle
next to another American stranger.
I hope that’s not too strange—that was probably a lot.”

Then, that laugh. The laugh you really had to be there to hear.
The laugh— everything I imagined.

I hand him his book. He hands it back.
We’ll waltz like this for a long time.
Each pass coming with new wine stains,
inked thumbprints, and scribbles watermarking
the edges. I find enough confidence to ask,
“Can I have a hug, please?”

When he embraces me,
I’m caught by how wonderful it is to be fragile.
We’re tugging at each other from both sides of history,
threadbacks tying together.

Martheaus Perkins is a Black writer pursuing an MFA at George Mason and co-editor of BRAWL. His work appears in West Trade Review, PRISM, Longleaf Review, and elsewhere. He is currently dealing with an excessively long YouTube video obsession. His Instagram and X are @martheaus.