Imani: You were the very first poet published by Mouthful of Salt. How does it feel to be the “first taste” of the journal? What flavor did you hope to leave behind?

Hachi: It’s an honor to be the first morsel offered from Mouthful of Salt! Not to be too on the nose, but I hope to leave behind the sweetness of tangy barbecue sauce left at the back of your tongue after eating a sauce-slathered piece of wood-smoked meat. There’s a sweet lingering that exists in grief.

Imani: That’s such a vivid metaphor. Sweetness, smoke, grief…it all lingers just as your poem has. What conversation did you hope to begin with your poem, “Bill’s BBQ Sauce”? Has that conversation changed now that it’s been heard?

Hachi: I hoped to begin a conversation about the nature of grieving an imperfect person/an imperfect family and the conflicting emotions that arrive in the processing. I think that conversation has continued to reverberate especially with my family, bringing healing.

He is not here and I feel like I’ve failed him, left muddy the waters of him.

Imani: The idea that grief can be both conversation and catalyst––very powerful. It’s beautiful to hear that the poem has echoed beyond the page for you, especially within your family. What did you hope to preserve by submitting this work? What did you hope to ferment?

Hachi: I hope to immortalize my great-grandfather and his legacy within this poem. I hope that he is proud of the work I’ve done to honor him and my family. As far as fermentation, I wanted to break down the taboos about speaking about generational trauma and the ripples that it leaves in our lives and those that come after us. It’s something that can leave a bitter, vinegary taste at first––it’s not easy to swallow, especially once you recognize the role you play in it, but then it turns sweet over time as patterns are broken and an understanding takes place. It’s been such a hard but beautiful thing in my life.

Imani: What an interesting way to put it––that fermentation of pain can become something sweeter, more digestible over time. I’m curious now which line from either “Bill’s BBQ Sauce” or “Sharecropper” have you written that you can’t stop circling back to?

Hachi: I think the line, “He is not here and I feel like I’ve failed him, left muddy the waters of him” sticks with me and when I read it at open mics or readings it gets me choked up. My great-grandfather was such a vital encourager of my writing and so in these series of poems I’ve written about him, trying to preserve him, I worry about getting it “right”. The grief of losing him before getting a chance to show him my writing as it progressed is heavy, but I’ve realized over time that these poems are a labor of love and there is no wrong way to love someone even when they are gone.

We all deserve equitable rights and opportunities. I feel that that message is more important now than ever.

Imani: It’s funny, I had actually already pulled that line from the poem and planned on using it in this interview, so when you spoke to it, it felt full circle. That line really does ache and capture so much: grief, longing, even tenderness. Which lines in your poems do you return to for clarity—or to grieve?

Hachi: The last line of “Sharecropper” is an idea that I often return to as it questions the systems in power’s treatment of people in unethical and harmful ways, and asks the reader to remember that all people deserve to have the most expansive life possible. We all deserve equitable rights and opportunities. I feel that that message is more important now than ever.