a little tenderness, by Omotara James 

my first word was not mama, but cookie

i don’t make a lot of money

could be more beautiful

remain fat

my mother doesn’t understand my friends

the aesthetics of my expanding flesh

she might understand why i don’t love men

but not how i’ve come to love women

or why i cry

my mother, never taught me to understand her

in her native language of Yoruba, her language

was providing a better life, she stays busy

surviving what we took without thinking

twice, my mother avoids complexities 

from my writing chair i can still hear her

the length of her befuddlement is as long

and winding as all my years, heavy as hardship

private as disappointment, the distance of her arm’s 

length is precisely how much she loves me

i imagine her, often, as a girl

denied the outstretched arms of a mother

to keep her safe, or someone to convince her— 

while the window was still open, while

she was a soft child with unblemished hope,

countenance still as palm oil, before it’s fired

—that she was perfect

Perfect. 

i spend my nights on the internet, looking

up words in the dark, practice my pronunciation

i know i’m not doing it right, i give up, this

is not how you learn a language, i catch

a reflection of myself on the dark screen,

left to cope with the facts of life and a loving God

on my face, the look of bewilderment,

she’s worried for my heart while i’m worried

for my heart

"a little tenderness" (poem), Song of My Softening by Omotara James, Alice James Books, 2024.