the lougawou discusses repetition
BY MCKENDY FILS-AIMÉ
it is not enough to repeat a word
until it loses meaning. say it more.
again. say it until your teeth wear away
the tips & corners of the letters. the spelling
more comical than concerning. say it like a slur
a tired printer slips onto a sheet of paper,
like there isn’t meaning under the smudge.
let’s practice: LOUGAWOU, lougAWOU, lougawou.
in the courtyards of port-au-prince, the kids chant
my name, hurl it like pebbles at an old man
when he scolds them for stealing
his mangoes. now lougawou is no longer
nightmarish, amorphous, but a synonym
for levity. now when one of those kids breaks
into a fever, his parents might say malaria
before my name. once, a mob would have
marched to the old man’s home & hung him
in search of a cure. once, they would have
looked at every elder like a fountain of wisdom
teeming with puffer fish. once, i would have feared
slipping into their homes, shadow-sprawling
across their children’s rooms, swallowing
tiny beds. my dark blending into the dark.
my maw eager to drink their babies
breathless. now i barely remember thirst,
famine a dead language
in the history of my stomach. & all i had
to do was lend them my name, let them whisper it
like an omen, lighter after each retelling, weightless
like a good joke. my name a punchline
& the laughter it ushers. my name fangless
as a boa slowly coiling around your throat
