mommi.
in the apartment i share
with the woman
i love, we have
a bright yellow bookcase.
used
as an arts altar. we shelve
crayons, watercolors, ink, paper
and glue for collages. i keep
my haitian kreyol-english dictionary
behind the colored pencils.

its red cover taunts me, daily.
i am often too afraid
to open it. i picked it up
once—
when i first got it—hungry
for familiar
words that could make me
feel home. i tried
to look up "lesbian"
but the little red book denied
my existence.

i called you, remember?

mommi. how do you
say lesbian in kreyol?
oh, you said, you say madivinez.
but it's not a positive word.
it's vulgar.
no one wants to be
called madivinez.

it's like saying dyke.

but how can cruelty sound
so beautiful? madivinez.
sounds so glamorous. something i want
to be. madivinez.
my divine?
sounds so holy.

i thank you and hang up the phone
to repeat my vulgar
gift word
as i write it
into the dictionary,
next to ke, kreyol
for heart.

glamorous, holy, haitian dyke heart.
something i want
to be.

A poem by Lenelle Moise