Marvin Garbeh Davis, Sr.
MY BODY REMEMBERS BEFORE I DO
My knees remember wars I never fought—
quiet battles with mornings that arrived
before my bones were ready.
My back carries a country
larger than Liberia—the country of old promises,
of men who never healed enough to grow new spines.
My chest keeps the story of every breath
that almost didn’t come back,
every night I begged my heart
to keep drumming
though the world around me had stopped singing.
Sometimes my body speaks before my mouth—
a tremor in my left hand,
a warning in my gums,
a whisper behind my eyes saying,
“You are still here.
But you are not the same.”
If you want to know my testimony,
run your fingers across the map of my scars.
They will tell you everything
my voice still struggles to confess.
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