2023 Frontier OPEN Finalist: Pecola Breedlove Watches Zora Tether in Jordan Peele’s US then Nina Simone Sings in the Background by Yolanda J. Franklin

By Yolanda J. Franklin | December 6, 2023

Join us in celebrating this poem by Yolanda J. Franklin, one of our finalists of the 2023 Frontier OPEN!

Please stay tuned as we publish the rest of the finalists throughout the month of December.

Pecola Breedlove Watches Zora Tether in Jordan Peele’s US then Nina Simone Sings in the Background

I believe I figured out how to make a copy of my body:

repeat the magic words over and over in my handheld

mirror until the miracle happens. Umbrae is born.

Then there was us. I prayed for her all my life.

Now I am a hall of mirrors— inside, not a reflection

or a shadow, but a tether of a girl who looks exactly

like me. Now perhaps, I now am somebody in this world,

where girls like me go mad and are always tested

by God. We have to marigold all by ourselves,

breed the soil of this world still bad for certain kinds of flowers.

You see, others see me as some kind of fucked-up performance

art—skin so black it’s blue. How the racial imaginary

murders marigolds before bloom, like my body—

as a scapegoat the land wills to kill us at its own volition.

As a scapegoat, the land wills to kill us at its own volition.

The racial imaginary murders marigolds before bloom—

like my body. Skin so black it’s blue. You see, others

see me as some kind of fucked-up performance art. Breed

the soil of this world still bad for certain kinds of flowers:

By God, we have to marigold all by ourselves.

Where girls like me go mad and are always tested

now. Perhaps, I know I am somebody in this world

or a shadow, or exactly a tether of a girl, but who looks

inside. Am I now a hall of mirrors—, not a reflection

then? There was US. I prayed for her all my life:

Umbrae is born. Mirror until the miracle happens,

repeat the magic words over and over in my held hand.

I believe I figured out how to make a copy of my body.

How to make a copy of my body: believe. I figured

out the magic words. Repeat over and over until

the miracle happens. In my handheld mirror,

Umbrae is born. Then, there was US. All my life,

I prayed for her: not a reflection, or a shadow,

or a tether of a girl. I am a hall of mirrors now. But

who looks inside? Exactly. Perhaps, I am now

somebody in this world where girls like me go mad

and are always tested. By God, we all have to marigold

by ourselves. The soil of this world still had for certain kinds

of flowers breed me, see?  You see how skin so black it’s blue

as some kind of fucked up performance art. The racial imaginary

others us, murders marigolds like my body. How? As a scape-

goat, before bloom, the land wills to kill at its own volition.

How the land wills to kill us at its own volition like a scape-

goat before blooming. Marigolds like my body, others

in the racial imaginary, murder skin so black it’s blue

as some kind of fucked-up performance art. You see how

the soil of this world still bad for certain kind of flowers

to breed. See me? By God, we have to marigold

all by ourselves, always tested, and like me, go mad. Now,

perhaps, I am somebody in this world where girls

“hall of mirrors.” But nowadays, who looks inside

exactly? I am not a reflection, or a shadow, or a tether

of a girl I prayed for then. There was us all my life.

In my handheld mirror, Umbrae happens. The magic

words repeat over and over until the miracle is born:

belief. I figured out how to make a copy of my body.

I figured out how to make a copy of my body: belief.

Words repeat over and over until the miracle is born.

The magic in my handheld mirror happens: Umbrae,

a tether of a girl, I prayed for all my life. Then, us. Not

a shadow or a reflection exactly, but a hall of mirrors

who looks inside. Nowadays, perhaps, I am somebody

in this world where girls go mad, like me, all by ourselves—

tested, always by God, you see? We breed marigolds,

have the soil of this world, still bad for certain kind of flowers.

How you see me as some kind of fucked-up performance art,

beholden to the eyes of beauty; skin so murder-black

it’s blue. Before blooming, other marigolds, like my body,

scapegoat like how the land wills us at its own volition, inflicts,

again, and again enough pain. My back is strong enough to take.

Again, and again enough pain. My back is strong enough

to take inflictions like the land wills us at its own volition,

how my body scapegoats before blooming like other

marigolds beholden to the eyes of beauty: skin so

murder-blue-black. It’s some kind of fucked-up performance

art, how you see me. The soil of this world, still bad for certain

kind of flowers, breed marigolds. Tested, always, by God,

you see. Where we, in this world, all by ourselves, go

mad, like me! Nowadays, who looks inside? I am somebody,

perhaps: not a shadow or a reflection exactly, but a hall

of mirrors, a tether of a girl, then. I prayed for us all

my life. Umbrae happens in the magic of my hand-

held mirror. Until the miracle is born, words repeat over

and over: I believe, figure out how to make a copy of my body.

I believe. Figured out how to make a copy of my body:

repeat the words over and over until the miracle is born,

& hold my mirror in the magic of my hand until Umbrae

happens. I prayed for us all my life. Then, a tether of a girl,

a hall of mirrors perhaps, but not a shadow or a reflection

exactly. Nowadays, I am somebody mad, who looks inside

you see. In this world, we go all by ourselves, where we,

like me, tested always. By God, the soil of this world’s still bad

for certain, kind flowers. Marigolds breed art you see? How

some kind of fucked-up performance art is me. It’s skin:

red-rum-blue-black, so beholden to eyes of beauty,

my body scapegoats like how marigolds bloom again,

and again. Enough pain. My back is strong enough to take

inflictions like the land wills us at its own volitions.

Yolanda J. Franklin