Two Poems by Nandi Comer
HOW NOT TO LOSE THE MASK: TAKE DOWN THE MAN WHO GRABS YOUR CROTCH WHILE ON YOUR WAY TO CHURCH
When bells swing through their soft
devotional clang, when you are near
and can recognize pastel flowers
ruffled in a girl’s church dress,
you will pass the stubby man—
your opponent. You might take him
for another worshipper, or merely
a drowsy morning pedestrian.
When he reaches his thick arm
towards you, you might not realize
where he is aiming. You might not understand
until he seizes you, until you’ve already caught
his dirty fat hand, and spun the both of you so that now
you face each other. You might blurt out,
¡Hijo de tu puta madre! and ¡Pendejo! and ¡Mierda!
Summon every curse you can remember.
You might be too far for any priest to notice
your assault. Make the most of this match. Twist his arm
at the wrist. If you can, an elbow bend.
The struggle might feel like a lifetime,
but let’s face it, your grip has never held on long.
So keep cursing. Do not stutter. See
how his startled eyes roll open.
Call his foul. Repeat ¡Pinche
cabrón! When he loosens your grip
and takes off running, chase him.
LOSING THE MASK
1. El Luchador
When the laces loosened and gave,
a cool air and calm hit my face. The ring’s gasp
clogged my ears. Not silent. Not chaos.
It was as if I’d mangled my hand on a job. I lost
my face, placed my creased grin
into my audience’s palms. Losing my mask
was like having my torso ripped out. Then
I offered it still trembling to the winner.
My face, my exposed veins pumping
over my forehead. I was no lazy factory worker
losing my thumb under a negligent power saw.
Not a chef cutting too quickly at a raw carrot.
I lost. I put on a good face—
my face. I dragged the rest of my body
through the arena, through warm back halls,
to my locker. Pulled my arms into my shirt,
and tugged at the buckle of my belt. I dressed
my body in plain clothes. I broke.
2. La Máscara
Before I let go, before they part me open,
before they pull you, headfirst, out of me,
and hand me over to a man
who will take me and hang me,
before I become a sparkling medallion,
a memory, a relic of slaughter,
you have got to loosen all the strings.
You will always have hair,
boots, and tape. In a year
you can go to a mall or grocery store,
you can walk through the dust
of a market and everyone will know
the bottom lip and callused forehead
I have kept so long inside. M’hijo,
before I let go of your face,
someone will have to rip me apart.
—
Nandi Comer is the author of Tapping Out (Triquarterly) and the chapbook American Family: A Syndrome (Finishing Line Press). She is a Cave Canem Fellow, a Callaloo Fellow, and a 2019 Kresge Arts in Detroit Fellow. She directs the AMP Speakers Bureau and is a founding member of the collective Detroit Lit.
