Robert Okaji

Tipton Poetry Journal – Summer 2021

Scarecrow Wonders

Robert Okaji

I think, therefore I cannot be. Yet here I stand, vigilant amidst the black birds and below the cloud-rimmed sky, rotting in my mildewed coat and tied-off trousers, counting tail feathers and collecting rumors of insurrections and confederacies, of lovers and lynchings and injustices replayed in perpetuity. Purposes elude me. As do symbols. Some would deny my soul, others would box and sell it, while I worry mostly that my left arm’s bulk has sifted away by half, that a heavy rain or curious cow will hasten my departure. Though I do not live, this form of myself will erode as surely as that word's etymology, gnawed away by weather or yes, the rodents. And what of these tales? Folk stopped for one invalid reason, shot dead for another or bludgeoned on the basis of appearance alone. What is humanity but a misshapen bundle of hate fed by lies, bigotry, and ignorance entwined with fear. Hollow and straw-made, I pity those who cannot see beyond their red hat brims and shallow truths, those mere descriptors, shapes and colors that comprise but do not define. I cannot be, yet here I stand, mingling with corvid cries and the incomprehensible, but alone in my wonder, acknowledging existence, understanding little of how the world works and what I might become if only I had substance, a role, a place, a voice.

Robert Okaji is a displaced Texan seeking work in Indianapolis. He once owned a bookstore, served without distinction in the U.S. Navy, and most recently bagged groceries for a living. He is the author of multiple chapbooks, including My Mother's Ghost Scrubs the Floor at 2 a.m. (winner of the 2021 Etchings Press Poetry Prize). His work has appeared or is forthcoming in North Dakota Quarterly, Vox Populi, Buddhist Poetry Review, Book of Matches and elsewhere.