Pass it forward
Heal it down
This honey flows
From goddess.
To ancestors
Through me
To kin
Kind
Descendant of my chest
This heart beats
To correct past
Deeds
Doings
Phenomena
We feel today
Heal today
Ancestral memory grinds my teeth
Clenches my jaw
Body shudders
There are no regrets
Only experiences
Lessons
Taught
Forgotten
Uncovered
I weep for the future
So the future can weep less
Or more
For other things
Yet to be conceived of
I commit you to memory
Future kind
Who I heal for
And with
in this echo
That is time
I am afraid to walk my dog
I am afraid to walk my dog
our black bodies are magnets
Our race and breed categorized as dangerous
we are a double threat
with our broad grins
and curious eyes
always sniffing out
some new blessing
until we are accosted
white hands on my chest
pushing me back
white people standing all around me, silent
and I have to reign myself in
I am not allowed to react
to this violent provocation
because they will label justification
irrational, they will blame the race and the breed
my friend will protect me if I show my fear
if I feel ill at ease
if whiteness attacks
I must relax
It attacks so much
we cross the street
a white man yells, “Hey sis, keep him away from me
if he comes for me I’m coming for him”
I shout across, “I’m not your sis”
My dog barks and I praise him, and shout again at the man and pull myself away
a white woman’s dog attacks mine,
She screams at me to leave the park
A public place where dogs come to play
and get in fights. all. the time
White people standing all around me, silent
another white man kicks my dog,
he left open the gate
my dog ran in and he kicked him away
because that’s what white men do to feel strong
they kick and they beat and they justify
I screamed at this large white man
I asked him if it made him feel good, kicking a dog
if it made him feel proud
he told me to leave, go back where I came from
in this public place
white people standing all around me, silent
We walk down the street, white women jump away
remember, we are just going about our day
doing what we love to do
enjoying nature’s gifts
soaking up the sun, or running in the rain
the story is always the same
they’re threatened by our presence
they’re threatened when we push back
I get up early, push my sweet pup off the bed
and take him outside, because there are less people
Fewer dangers, pretend that I am a morning person
That popping up is what I really want to do
We love rest
We love ease
I contort our routine around my fear
In which a Poet meets a typewriter
Complexity// an attractive word
sexy. nuanced. containing a variety of things
how does one contemplate an echo?
if we kissed//would you remember in 20 years?
fondly//sweetly? would a smile hug your lips?
as I hugged your mouth? would you lean into me?
what makes a thing romantic?
what makes a cloud or gesture or song romantic?
how do we diffuse jealousy?
our love is ephemeral// only exists in dreams
and moments we create together when we share the same breath && space && daringly tender hopes && fears // what does it mean to be hopeful//
how do we contend with fear?? & longing && v tangible boxes & barriers &&
how do we write mindlessly when the mind is full?
endlessly// rhythmically full of thought and idea and clarity of purpose//if only for an instant fleeting
impression lasting and seeking another moment of wisdom or truth or strength of mission and sovereign dream
everything you hand me feels like home
i hold it in my hand // palm open // as i hold you
mostly in moment && memory && magic
like the mountains i look at as i type
tiny meager mighty things
How do we hear what speaks in echoes?
if we hush our breath
can we hear the ancestors dance?
is that my ancestor’s skirt rustling in the wind?
who but the gods can tell
with their journals full of secrets
like Laplace and his demon
chronicling memories of the past
creating infinite space for future dreams
Isis
sits scrawling lazily
tiny meager mighty things
Icarus
spreads their wings and shoots
directly into the sun
on earth we call it lightning
as their wings fall from the clouds
feathers scatter then burn
before ever reaching ground
Puddle
I’ve been feeling stuck. Trapped in cyclical narratives about writing and who I am as an artist. A friend suggested I write a poem about something mundane. Like a puddle. So, here it is.
Thinning fabric
We broke up the other day, I’m trying to pretend not to notice
Truth to tell we were never really together
I try to recall the times you’ve broken my heart
I’ve let them fade into the fabric of our story
Fabric worn thin by my worrying hands retracing patterns again and again
Trying to commit us to memory
I glance at your piece of our cloth, you’ve cut out bits of us, leaving patches in our truth
I wonder if you remember what it looked like before you erased us
Does your mind recall how beautiful we were?
Threads woven together bright and dark, hazy and shining
Like sun breaking through clouds after a raging storm
These days, you see only the storm, can only take in the chaos
Should your fingers try to retrace us, they’d find holes held together by trivial pieces of our memory
I still see us, breaking boldly through clouds
Weaving our story together with threads of tenderness, laughter and pain
How could you cut us apart?
I’ve kept my piece intact; fingers retrace our history at times lovingly, at times mournful
Feeling always where we’ve thinned out
Our fabric is worn, the time has come to put us away
Tracing patterns once more I fold us up and place us in my dresser, next to old faded sweatshirts of love gone by
What you choose to do with your fabric, I have no say
For my part, I’ll keep mine hidden and safe
Neatly folded and forgotten as we carry on the aimless game we play
We broke up the other day and today, the sun is hidden away
Skies are dark, dreary and grey, contented to stay that way
When Dragons don’t Text Back
‘Would you rather be a dragon or a unicorn?’
I repeat the question my sweetfriend asked the night before
‘Oh. That’s a good question!’
‘Well?’
‘Dragon. Definitely dragon.’
I text my friend too much. Sometimes she responds. Sometimes she doesn’t.
I know she loves me.
She makes me feel safe, absorbs my madness and spits out rational thought in her sleep
We talk about sex, fuckery, and the magic of extra biscuits
I am learning this is what friends do
Practicing the art of leaning into my sexuality isn’t a joke
Especially since I tend to extremes, abstinence or Lilith on fleek
These are my settings
Fate and the Universe have sent me on a side-quest to balance
My friend is my inspiration, guide, and also the dragon who lives in old, dark caves fucking with nearby villagers
Weary traveler, exhausted from my quest, I approach the village
Naturally, recognizing my warrior status, the villagers solicit me for assistance
I oblige
Slowly I trek up the mountain to the cave where the dragon sleeps
My approach wakes her. I find her to be perfectly lovely, if a bit surly
She explains that the villagers often climb through her caves and interrupt her sleep
To ward them off, occasionally, she takes to burning one or twelve of them to a crisp
She says they taste wonderful with salt. I laugh
This is how our friendship begins, the warrior and the dragon
I came to slay, but stayed to play
Anyway, I’m texting my friend
We are talking about sex and trips and food that makes us come
I eat a canna-chocolate and write one last message before sleep pulls me under
Typing it, I am glad for her, her fiery mouth and her ancient wisdom
The text is word vomit in the form of late night poetic mania
I know she will not respond, I send it anyway
When she reads it I know she’ll think I’m ridiculous,
Smiling to myself, I think of where we began
Ridiculous, isn’t that what dragons think of man?
Misdirection
My mind hides things from me, serves me up doses of misdirection, with hits of delusion, leaving me cloudy, confused, lost and distracted, certain in my uncertainty
Im trying to say, I forgot how you make me feel, and when I say forgot, I mean blocked with all the strength my Warrior’s heart could muster
You got in when the gate was down and you don’t know what it looks like when I am hurt and hiding
I don’t want to be hurt and hiding
This me, listens to Be. while I write to you this poem, this confession or protestation of my affinity for the swag in your step and the God in your eyes
Fear comes in, guardian at the gate come looking for you, wondering what the fuck you are doing inside these walls
You just smile
I’m afraid to look at you, afraid I will see you and remember that feeling that I get when you put your arm on the back of my chair and all I can do is stare at my hand
or my phone or whatever is in front of me and pray to whatever god is listening that the words to come out my mouth are funny or charming or a healthy balance of the two
I’d like to let you stay, your presence is comforting
See, it’s your your smile and the way emotions flash across your face, some stay longer than others and I like to watch them
I like to watch you and I don’t know if that is normal or weird or a healthy balance of the two
but its true
Shadow Dancer
I don’t know why I think you are hearing me
Working out the rhythms in my silences, and downbeats
Are you listening when I pick up the tempo?
I am dancing a salsa over here and am left with the shadow of a partner
All I have are illusions
I whisper sweet nothings into your dark, ephemeral ear
Tell you my secrets while my body moves to the music
The song is our heartbeats pounding out different rhythms
It complicates the beat
I can’t tell if it is beautiful
My feet keep moving, keep stepping
The sun is almost set and the moon is sleeping in
Darkness falls and your shadow fades
I am left with just me, the night, and the sound of my solitary heart beating
The sound of my feet dancing, stepping out a furious rhythm
Lilac
For a long time I equated being good with being silent
I was told to hold contradictions in my mouth
speak up but stay silent
speak up when you have something to say, but don’t say the truth
don’t speak your fear
speak so you can be heard:
I have a rage inside me which has yet to find its limit
it crawls up my back, claws out my eyes and spills from my mouth
I war with everyone around me
words ripping//eyes tearing the way through my day
I dropped a bottle of perfume
My grandmother gave it to me when I was a child
it smells strong like lilac and it stained the tapestry
I can’t help the smell
and the bottle I kept safe for years is now gone
like the woman who gave it to me
and is that a sign or just a bottle or a combination of the two
a reminder from the ancestors not to forget them, telling me,
sometimes bottles break
when what’s inside needs to be let out
