top of page

BLACK EPISTEME NO. 9:

THIS IS WHAT I KNOW ABOUT BLOOD—

JONAH MIXON-WEBSTER

that when I wake in it,

my body turns the earth with its gnashing

that when I find it in my hands, I do not

recall my name. Here, I offer you

a truism. I am not speaking of a cut,

nor the way my stomach split

to touch my back to the bullet, but

of what remains in the image of loss—

how it is signifier and referent at once,

how it pulls from my unending mouth,

how at this moment

I am sitting in a mess of it 

waiting for my own legs to stand—   

how I could leave it

as a sign that reads:             I wuzn’t even here

         I wuzn’t even here at all

bottom of page