stay is a sensitive word.
we wear
who stayed
and
who left
in our skin forever.
–– sojourn
what
we hide
and do not
say
turns into
another mouth
that
only we know.
–– mouths
as a woman
i know the difference between
appreciation
and
teeth.
what really hurts
is that
as a girl
i had to know the same thing.
–– survivor
i am a silk field of vulnerability.
be careful
of all the things
you lose
in someone’s mouth
when you love them.
if you deserve
honey
mine will flow from my arms to yours
no effort, no asking.
but, if there is none
and
you feel wind instead.
know
that my spirit already
senses that
when you smell sweetness
you
begin harvesting blades in your hands.
–– kindness is a form of intelligence
what can i do
when the night comes
and
i break into stars.
–– osmosis
do not
put
your hand
in the mouth of loneliness.
its teeth are soft
but it will scar you for life.
–– do not be seduced by the lonely ones
you travel
to lush looted countries
parts of earth laying on their sides
barely breathing
hot with rust, infection, and tourist anemia.
you and your camera arrive.
start tearing at bodies
with
your lust.
it’s harmless.
appreciating culture.
sharing.
honoring clothing.
the way certain skin exists.
oh
you’ve sold those photographs
the ones you were so excited about.
the one you ‘caught’ with children being children.
the one with the woman you thought so ‘beautiful.’
you and your camera
eat
as much as one stomach and three sd cards can hold.
get on a plane
and
leave with the belief
that
your eyes are
clean.
honest.
artistic.
–– photography | the gaze
the night was busy making the moon
so
i gathered my quilt
and softly
told my heart
we’d come back
tomorrow.
my whole life
i have
ate my tongue.
ate my tongue.
ate my tongue.
i am so full of my tongue
you would think speaking is easy.
but it is not.
–– for we who keep our lives in our mouths
africa does not need your tears.
or
your prayers.
or
your money.
or
your t-shirts.
or
your telethons.
or
your hands ever so lovingly placed
on her buttocks.
your mouth at her breasts.
your fists in her eyes.
and
calling it water.
she wants you to leave.
she is the mother.
she does not belong to you.
you do not belong to her.
and
you hate this.
but
one day
you will reap.
what
you have sown.
–– aid
men give birth, too.
to children.
to longings.
to dreams.
that they must hide.
their stomachs.
their uteruses.
their hungers.
their softness.
their cravings for touch.
to be
a
man.
is the thing
that closes their light.
and
eats their eyes.
–– him
there is you and you.
this is a relationship.
this is the most important relationship.
–– home
cry wild.
you have probably never cried wild.
but, you know what doors
feel like.
you have
an intimacy with doors
that is killing you.
–– break
decolonization
requires
acknowledging.
that your
needs and desires
should
never
come at the expense of another’s
life energy.
it is being honest
that
you have been spoiled
by a machine
that
is not feeding you freedom
but
feeding
you
the milk of pain.
–– the release
why can we never
talk
about the blood.
the blood of our ancestors.
the blood of our history.
the blood between our legs.
–– blood
i will tell you, my daughter
of your worth
not your beauty
everyday. (your beauty is a given. every being is born beautiful)
knowing your worth
can save your life.
raising you on beauty alone
you will be starved.
you will be raw.
you will be weak.
an easy stomach.
always in need of someone telling you how beautiful you are.
–– emotional nutrition
good.
girl.
–– rope
your heart is the softest place on earth. take care of it.
the
diaspora is absolutely breathtaking.
and
the diaspora is in stunning pain.
we
are
a great many things. all at once.
–– myriad | disconnect
getting yourself together.
what about undoing yourself.
–– the fix
thick compassion.
as thick as the throats of our fathers
when they have already left
but leave their words behind.
.
our fathers write us. all over us. their handwriting. we can not ignore. whether they have spelled our eyes. our mouths. or the need in our brows. we can not help but be their poem.
.
how could they think they are not important. we are houses eaten by rivers because we do not know their smell. when we are looking all the way through ourselves, we are looking for them. how dare they remove themselves from our sight. we have a right to be able to recognize our father if he is passing us on the street.
.
what kind of heart break is he. what night was it that he decided. what did the moon look like. was he hungry. s
o hungry, that he would give me up. give us up. how do they give us up so easily. so willingly. they take out their voice. break us from it. and eat mist and guilt until we are but dreams.
unharm someone
by
telling the truth you could not face
when you
struck instead of tended.
–– put the fire out (unburn)
the beauty of my people
is
so
thick and intricate.
i spend days
trying
to undo my eyes
so
i can sleep.
–– lace
if
the ocean
can calm itself
so can you.
we
are both
salt water
mixed
with
air.
–– meditation
racism is a translucent skin.
it defends itself
by
attacking itself.
–– reverse racism
in our own ways
we all break.
it is okay
to hold your heart outside of your body
for
days.
months.
years.
at a time.
–– heal
you.
not wanting me.
was
the beginning of me
wanting myself.
thank you.
–– the hurt
eyes that commit.
that is what I am looking for.
warm philadelphia night. blue bruise across the sky. groceries in hand. i dreamt last night of honey. my grandmother called me into a dream like she used to call me into a room. she gave me honey. honey for you. you, who will not talk. who will not swallow the news. who will not let anything near your throat. but, i can find you. i can find you even when you are there, in morocco. even when you have flown through your eyes but not your body. when you are holding me, and i am practicing being limp with restraint, because i am really holding you. when you refuse to change back from water and want to fill our whole house with the sebou. i know, my sweet. we have spoke of her the entire length of our love. she was your eyes the day i met you. remember, you and i. on the floor, you teaching me of how she eats. three fingers on the right hand only. i have worn her clothes. ate her language from your mouth. and i knew, i knew when the phone calls came, and the tv started shrieking, and our house turned into weather, i knew this would break some of our bones. but my love, it is drinking us down to our teeth. i can not see you anymore. your smile. your legs. your heat. is lonely. the honey, grandmother said, is for your blood. it is to bring you back. but, she said, i must first ask, ‘if’ you want to come back. and though, ‘if’ is a razor to my vein, i will ask. so, i am not asking ‘when’ you will come back. because, i can take it, the swimming in your body, the lostness, your growing appetite for doors. i am not asking when. ‘when,’ is not something you ask someone when the bodies of their aunt. uncle. friends. first love. can not be found. i am asking‚ ‘if.’ because i am here. dangling from your left ring finger, wringing oceans out of my skin, and coming home every night. i know your family is tattoo and it is their screaming voices you hear when I say i love you. i know, she is the love you are, the land you are made of, and she is hemorrhaging. war is eating her heart. but, you are losing yours too, my love.
–– what the war has done to us
white people try to take
blackness.
pour it out
rub it into their skin
and
wear us
like they know what we about.
but
honey
it’s only ever gon’ be a suntan.
you
ain’t neva gon’ be black.
–– tan | stealing from the sun
stop speaking.
use your eyes, instead.
–– the eye fire
be insecure
in peace.
allow yourself
lowness.
know that it is
only
a
country
on
the way to who you are.
–– traveling
if.
we.
are
with child.
and
you believe that fatherhood
begins
when my body pours a baby into your hands.
not before.
you do not deserve this child.
you are a coward.
–– you are a father the moment you enter me
do
not ever
be
afraid to tell me
who you are.
i am going to find
out
eventually.
–– blunt
you ask
to touch my hair
or worse
touch it without asking.
this is not innocence.
this is not ignorance.
this is not curiosity.
this is the very racist and subhuman belief
that
you have a right to me.
–– i will break your hand. do not ever touch me | every time you touch my hair my ancestors place a curse on you
your soul stained my shoulders.
my whole life smells like you.
this
will take time.
undoing you from my blood.
–– the work
our ache
for
africa.
is
the heart
behind
our heart.
the pain with no name.
–– amnesia
i am a woman
and
a poem.
–– visceral
when you allow
that man.
to walk through your children.
plant his feet.
in
their veins.
hold their voices.
necks.
bodies.
inside his violence.
you are no longer a mother.
when you give him the key to that door. because you need
to be loved by someone.
you have seasoned them for the wolf.
burned their childhood into a fantasy.
it’s going to take a third of their lives.
all the courage.
from
their cells to their hair.
to learn the alchemetic formula
that
turns that kind of betrayal.
a demothering.
soft.
liveable.
–– before you get that key made
the worst
thing that ever happened
to
the world
was
the white man coming across gun powder.
–– the end of the world | the beginning of white supremacy
soon
the moon will come from my lips
and
you will not remember your name.
–– oshún
there is a phantom language in my mouth.
a tongue beneath my tongue.
will i ever
remember what
i sound
like.
will i ever come home.
–– african american i
i lost a whole continent.
a whole continent from my memory.
unlike all other hyphenated americans
my hyphen is made of blood. feces. bone.
when africa says hello
my mouth is a heartbreak
because i have nothing in my tongue
to answer her.
i do not know how to say hello to my mother.
–– african american ii
can you be a daughter.
if you have no
mother language.
–– african american iii
how beautiful
that you can lay down a map
and with a straight finger
show me who you are.
you say
'show me, show me who you are.'
i tell my soft tight finger
'do not be afraid'
i slow and lightly
lay it on africa (as if i do not belong to her)
and
then
you ask me
‘where.’
–– african american iiii
we are afraid.
ashamed.
of
africa.
–– the secret we never say | african american iiiii
i like
the heat
in certain words.
the warm travel.
the low sun.
you do not have to be a fire
for
every mountain blocking you.
you could be a water
and
soft river your way to freedom
too.
–– options
sometimes the night wakes in the
middle of me
and i can do nothing
but
become the moon.
i want to see
brown and black folks
photographed
by
brown and black eyes.
–– eyes
to not be safe on the earth.
simply
because
of the color of your skin.
how does a being survive this.
–– trayvon martin
if
a man
can
only show vulnerability