held a gun, have held you
Ti Kendrick Randall
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8
these hands, which by no means have held a knife,
have explored the thirty-three divots in
your spine; have borne the full weight of your body
2
these hands, which have never held ammunition,
have, without a pot to piss in, seasoned
roast in a pan on the stove for your dinner
10
unlearned in grappling distances, these hands,
unschooled in war, implored YHWH to let us
find some love among all of this commitment
3
these hands, which have never ignited ex-
plosive devices, have bathed the bottoms
of the children this body has borne for you
4
without a window to throw it out of,
these hands have never come in contact with
the fuse of a bomb; have never struck a match
5
1. Lit. to touch someone or something, prob-
ably unknowingly. 2. Fig. to meet
up with and learn about someone or something.
7
appendages that searched your vertebrae
articulated buttons not heavy
artillery: as distinguished from small arms
6
show defensive wounds against you who fire
until you see the blackening of these
eyes, elbows, back, shins, these collarbones
9
in the uncountable hours of our
fruitless lovemaking, these hands, alien
to battering rams, have folded in prayer
1
these hands, which have never held a weapon,
have held you
Ti Kendrick Randall holds a BA in Divinity, BFA in Creative Writing and is currently pursuing an MFA in poetry at Goddard College. She is the author of two chapbooks, former poetry slam host for the National Black Book Festival, and lover of her father’s peach cobbler because it really is all about the crust. Ti is currently writing a volume of poetry created from interviews with African-Americans about the culture of secrets and silence in the Black community. “these hands, which have never held a knife, held a gun, have held you” is from this collection. She makes her home in Wilmington, Delaware with her teenage son..
“I am often stunned into silence when reading poetry. It’s one of the things I love about poems, their ability to make a silent reader’s thoughts as quiet as words on a page. What I’ll never really get used to, however, is the feeling of apprehension and tension I sometimes feel that makes me more aware I’ve been stunned into silence. Such was my initial reaction to Ti (Pronounced “Tee”) Kendrick Randall’s poem, “these hands, which have never held a knife, held a gun, have held you”.
I have to assume it was the juxtaposition between the repeated phrases and the urgent, unrelenting intimacy of the “gasp lines.” Somehow, Ti manages to keep this tension throughout the piece, and the result, for me, was feeling a bit of poetical post-traumatic stress. And that’s a good thing, because a bit of stress invites me to read the poem again, which by any poet’s definition signals a sign of success with a piece.
A Cave Canem Fellow, in introducing me to Ti and her work, said, ‘Ti is a genuinely kind and smart woman, whose poems emanate her warmth, talent, curiosity, playfulness, and innovation.’ And while I don’t think I could state the assessment any better, I would add the word “stunning” in there at least three times. Welcome to a new kind of holding.” — Timothy Black
Next Issue features David Cooke.