By Kache’ Attyana Mumford
The beauty of human language got lost behind a man in a splattered rose coat, with buttons that
fell down his inner thighs, fixed in the jungle of wild animals who feed on a tongue’s destruction,
preying on the weakness of a puzzled mind. I never thought my voice would lose the fight, as I
stutter over the cords of the voiceless, reaching out my arm to grope the rope of everything that
snatched my mic, but all I can hold is a mirror image of my lips, silently screaming against the
distance. Blocked by the ritual sounds of “hm hmm,” hidden behind dismissive eyes of those
who could never conceive of being frozen in time, with a mind that claws at its own image,
dreaming that one day someone will hear it. I tried to tell the doctors that this isn’t me. I’m not
the one who did this. I’ve fallen victim to the magic of an illness, but they couldn’t see the battle
that I’ve fought to get here, so they just turn their back and let me endure its attack. With eyes
covered in red satin tape that keeps my lips trembling under its weight, mumbling,see me. I
laugh louder than I cry and find comfort in the thunder that gives purpose to the rain. I roam
freely against the feeling of loneliness and smile in the mirror of tragedy. This is me. This is who
I lost in the third-degree. I wonder if anyone will get to know me again. I wonder if this is how
my story will end, muted and surrounded, while others fill their tongues with useless excuses. I
wonder, will anyone get to love me again? Or have I died before my body did? Cause now God
can’t hear me say Amen. Still, I pray you bring my voice back from the dead. Still, I say Amen
About the Author:
Kache’ Attyana Mumford is a poet, playwright, drama therapist, and educator. Her work explores Black womanhood, survival, and memory through a blend of lyric storytelling. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in literary journals such as Allium, Vermilion, Cathexis Northwest Press, and others.