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
–– 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
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