In the Absence of a Name Noah’s Wife Sings…

(The Poet notes that The Holy Spirit did not inspire Biblical writers to record her name)

But Noah found grace in the eyes of the lord

and thus formed the habit of my non-naming,

there were three generations of Noah:

but is me Miss No Name push out him pickney!

A just man and perfect in his generations

cos all he man chile gestated in this erased belly,

and Noah walked with God

and is Me, he lie down with,

and Noah begat three sons,

yet all I hearing is Noah, Noah, Noah,

Shem, Ham, and Japheth

so shame, mine is just epithet

and thou shalt come into the ark,

then my name shall surely sail in.

ii.

And so it began, the act of no-naming,

the deep grave they dug to shove me into.

The way they savagely slapped earth down

on top meh head with the bellies of shovels.

Even meh shadow flattened behind meh back,

like coward. Me behind you husband and three

pickney bam bam, knowing of the seven

offspring, only three took root.

O exhume me, anoint me with first names,

dip fleshy thumb to print lavender oil

into my forehead. In this act of naming, press

that name into scripture. Genesis is bereft

due to my pain. Say it. Me. You see me.

Flesh and blood. My mouth a litany of prayers.

iii.

In Genesis the world was brought into being with the act

of naming. Praise for your rough talk, when doubts flayed

his skin, raw with ineptitude. Praise for your crude sketches

in the sand, you who saw the ship’s hold like a womb to be

rocked, like a lullaby by the water. Praise for the hammer

you wield, striking, for the lift and slam of axe against tree,

for bleeding palms, the raw calluses, yea the Bible does not

tell us about you, lawful wife, and follower of God. You whose

marriage was rockslide on Sundays, rippling brook on Thursdays,

and salt in wood at twilight. Praise you whose marriage

was sawing of branch, was thump up he back and lash him

down with words, you whose name squatted in birth papers.

Was he faithful husband to your bosom chest, crappy mood

swings, and haunting days? This is the question we must ask

and we praise you still despite the absence of you name.

iv.

Praise for the countless days in horse shit, alleviated

by the bundles of lavender. And ....... you scattered

and you dried ....... stacks like heaps of hay prepared,

as you took inventory. The stench, my husband

—you implored daily! Praise the herbs you gathered

and pound to season our palate. The rice you buried

in your hair to restore to the new earth, in this new

world. How you and your son’s wives saved seeds

for nourishment. Your son’s wives too unnamed

like a cluster of newborns discarded on delivery. Praise

that sip of ginger beer on cool evenings to soothe belly,

the rain lashing down, roughing the waves, pelting.

The sway, nauseating the wombs on that boat like

living in a coffin for forty days, then bless the cattle,

surviving the chains down in that boat’s beast belly,

and what we missing is you and your daughters-in-law’s names.

And is just so dry they scatter names upon me

like dice on flat board tabletop, scatter names

on me like how this broad, old ark does not stop

rolling and rocking over these rough, rough waves

guessing—your name is Emzara

meaning Mother of Sarah

guessing—Ahhh—your name is Barthemos

guessing—Nah—your name is Bathemosh

(fingers pointing wagging)

and him shushing me,

bellowing Mrs Noah, tone foul, like I am a flea

sucking his blood dry to bone, each miscarriage,

dubbing my belly cursed vessel, unworthy. So each

time he dash the just-born corpse overboard, I bawled

and bawled as each bounced into their watery grave,

unnamed.

Notes:

This poem is part of the folio “Freed Verse: A Reckoning of Black British Poets.” Read the rest of the folio in the September 2025 issue.

Source: Poetry (September 2025)