THE WATER WILL COME

Hey y’all!

Last night I attended “An Evening With Saul Williams” at Woolly Mammoth Theater in Washington, DC. Saul Williams is one of my favorite poets of all time. It was full circle moment—his movie, Slam, is what inspired me to start writing in rhyme.

At the event, he called one of his mentees to the stage, Momolu S.K. Stewart. Momolu shared his story about being sentenced to two life sentences, plus 75 years, when he was only 16 years old. Saul met him when filming Slam at D.C. jail; he was so impressed with Momolu that he wrote him into the film. Momolu performed a poem of gratitude to Saul Williams and shared some of his wisdom with the audience. What a night!

For Day 6 of National Poetry Writing Month, the prompt is to:

Write a poem rooted in “weird wisdom,” by which we mean something objectively odd that someone told you once, and that has stuck with you ever since.

My poem bears tribute to some of the wisdom Momolu shared onstage last night:

THE WATER WILL COME

Inspired by Momolu Stewart

By Farah Lawal Harris, 2024

“On the release sheet, it says

DEATH.”

Locked away like unwanted knick-knacks in an attic,

overcrowded like a slave ship with

cramped selves on top of cramped cells,

the stench attempts to drown out the screams, asking:

“If I die today, who will remember me?

The windows are painted Black—

even when they were clear,

it was rare to notice the sky.

Piled bodies double as soundproofing.

Though we can’t hear,

we can prepare our hearts.

We can still build arks.

They’ll say we’re trippin,

but the water will come.

The water will come.

In floods, the first things destroyed

are floorboards and paper.

On the release sheet, it says “DEATH.”

How can paper, which needs but a few drops of water to rip,

to come apart like justice,

dictate my destiny?

Signs of life are here.

I want you to hear this clear:

“The Creator is more concerned with

who we are

than changing

where we are.”

It starts with the heart.

Keep building that ark.

The water will come, and

two by two,

four by four,

six by six,

eight by eight,

the rest of humanity will see our beauty.

Our ancestors will hand over the keys to unshackle—

Wait! I hear a rumble.