And she seemed wonderfully lonely, cooing herself to sleep as sunlight rushed to warm her feet and the hidden parts of her thighs.
She craned her neck towards the window and considered meeting it in person but decided that she preferred her closet.
With its familiar corners and self made dirt.
At least it belonged to her.
I am part of a lineage,
children of the sun
we stand kissed with radiance.
Mythological gods tall and at attention
animated by whispered incantations.
We are made from a concoction
rich soil, shunned by some and called dirt, but required by all for growing,
redden brick for building,
caramel that’s too sweet for tasting,
ebony to prove that when bodies move it can be can be affecting
and corn meal because we haven’t got much but somehow we’ll make it work.
Grinded by mortar and pestle the syrupy substance was smoothed across my limbs and down my back.
This sweet creation was just a little girl
with press-n-curl
skipping cracks on the sidewalks of Canarsie Brooklyn.
There’s a motherland that I’ve not seen again, after being torn from the point of no return.
An Eden where I walked naked
and witnessed the beautiful things that heaven bears
and I cradled robin eggs after they’d hatched.
I used to read walking home from school.
Not wanting to waste the dance of smells, movement, rustling, tweets and breeze on an unattuned imagination.
My symphonic immersion caused me to bump into cars and have close calls with light poles.
Unwavering in my commitment
biting at the bit
with my thumb poised to turn the page there was warmth.
And I would bury books to my chest beckoning for characters to come back and tell me that they were okay.
That was yesterday
Every Black girl who makes it past 18 deserves a kiss.
Stepping past the threshold of childhood into adolescence, clouded cover creates an overcast.
And the sunlight drains from their eyes
And the illuminant glow from their skin
Like stubborn eczema that is embarrassing and causes discoloration.
Pollution in the ethos
bubbles green with disdain.
Emerging into nicknames like ‘Shadow’, a coy sneer used to describe an ethereal complexion. Or prods like “girl you need a perm” Convince you that there is smoothing wrong with you.
And Snap, bones, ligaments, and sinews like gnawed chicken.
We may no longer be segregated but we are still not wanted
Brown hair, brown eyes? Disregarded.
Raised voices? Only tolerated.
A strong build. Misinterpreted.
And still it gets heavier
At a sleep away camp a 15 year old girl named Onicker exclaims that she “is just angry with God.”
Her Hope is torn up like a check from an account with insufficient funds.
One by one these young heirs to the sun tearfully confess to enabling abusive relationships because they wanted to be
wanted, abandonment, thoughts of suicide, and trying to use bleach to lighten their skin.
These women are left broken.
The fumes of burnt dreams to treat their sores. While Cautious not to fall through
the canyon sized cracks.
Motherless child with bloated bellies we can’t see tomorrow clearly
However this vessel wasn’t made for breaking.
Involuntary muscle of the heart keeps beating.
While a goddess of the rarest form reveals her silhouette
Leathered hands and groves in the face map the journey to glory.
Glycoma and diabetic her legacy is of dignity.
My ancestors were strong
And when I stand side by side my form does not compare.
My grandmother’s rice and peas was always cooked perfectly yet mine stick to the bottom of the pan.
I am a glimmer of her endurance,
Raising six babies and laughing despite her abuse.
She never had a support group.
While I am inspired by her story I could not fill her shoes.
She never said a mean word to anybody, fed her family
And then prayed for their safety.
My ancestors were strong, why am I not as they?
And despite my fragility I am tired this carousel ride
Turning From tragedy to triumph the spinning makes me ill.
And the Achilles heel gets dragged with a limp, and I’d rather walk straight to begin with.
But I’ve learned to take each day as a gift.
My life a living testament.
