"Writing Saved Me from the Sin of Violence"

Life Without Tsunamis

*for Zena*

(You.)

Not a word or an expression

Could capture your magic effectively.

In fact, when the crown of your

Head emerged from my Love,

There were no tears.

No. Only twinges of magic wrapped

In sheer capsules that I swallowed

Whole.

No water.

Because the water you came with

Was greater than the one I had

Become accustomed to drinking, bathing in

And cooking with.

Your water, my child,

Did not break,

It released itself into

My senses, so that I

Could see… a little more

Breathe… a little more

Feel… a little more

Fight… a little more

You arrived alert.

Staring and glaring at

The partial example of

The world around you.

Your eyes let me know that your

Presence has been

Guiding me before your birth,

And even before your conception.

Dec

when schools ain’t enough for black boys.

his words don’t fit with the curriculum sometimes ‘cause

he be writin’ rhymes for reparations and slingin’ street metaphors

to open lyrically locked public school doors.

Aug

you are here.

there you were.

on the screen, moving from side to side

a miracle no longer disguised.

i saw you. i stared. i cried.

i thought of you continuously

years,

eons,

before you arrived.

you consumed my thoughts before i knew

you,

little black bean.

and there you are, in my womb

breathing life into my soul,

like air.

your heartbeat

162 beats per minute

and my own heart create daily songs

in my shell.

i understand that you are a gift to me

and to the world.

Apr

Like Buttons

in the morning, at approximately 5:30am,

you could hear the sounds

coming from apt 1E.

water running. feet sliding on sheets. fast.

two bodies falling in and falling out,

like buttons...

it was in the morning, when the birds

came to listen to their diagonal discourse,

often camouflaged by the husky neighbor's music.

but today, you could hear it,

dropping layers of love and painless pain.

those two, the poetic pair,

fastened tightly,

like buttons...

Jan

Death Woman

I always knew It was a She.

After all, who else has the power to hate with smiles

And give birth to Revolutions…

There had to be estrogen sleeping beside the pools

Of thick blood on Park Avenue,

Where a dead man lay with his eyes open.

He was probably in Love. I could tell by the shape of his mouth,

Slightly curved up at the corners and flat in the center,

Giving his face a look of balanced insanity.

The shoes on his feet were a rich brown

Calling attention to the color of his eyes.

Nov

We Are Scars

we are scars.

etched into each

other’s skin: magic

we wear these scars boldly,

like chains

hanging around our necks

freely.

an entire ocean

once separated our bodies,

but our voices swam across

transatlantic lines.

and when nobody believed us,

our scars grew

wildly into moveable mountains.

our scars, deep burgundy

rich in stories and stars

reminding us of human fragility

you touch my scar

and I touch yours

different shapes, same size.

Sep

No Woman Wants To Be Fucked

No woman wants to be fucked.

Even the ones who sell pieces of their parts on modern day auction blocks,

Sucking on johnsons to feed life into Green.

I learned this the hard way.

After all, the art of movement,

Horizontally and vertically,

Can move the mind to erupt into a million little lies for five seconds.

But trust me,

No woman wants to be fucked.

Jul

Like Brothas on the Homefront

“ay yo imma fuck you up! come here man!” shouted the tall threatening man.

he was wearing khaki pants and a button down shirt

that was not tucked in.

i stood across the street, staring, wondering if i was about to witness

a fight on the corner of 149th and concord.

the man he addressed was yellow in color, and husky.

he wore shorts and a t-shirt and i wondered if he had a family

because he looked like someone’s father.

“shut up asshole!” he yelled back forcefully.

Jun

When The Smoke Clears

*Dedicated to the memory of Taswya Cambridge*

You never imagine that the one person you speak to,

(When the streets are empty and the pollution has not yet arrived)

Will die.

You do not imagine it will happen because you are too busy

Wondering if the corner store will have half and half milk

For your {non} free trade coffee.

You do not imagine it will happen because you are too busy

Admiring the sound of this woman’s voice as she speaks.

You do not

You cannot

Imagine the unseen.

Apr

Woman You Are

Woman, you are more than you

Understand,

Standing over mountains just to ensure

The world is safe.

Sometimes you bake pieces of your knowledge

Just so others can have a taste

And they slowly ingest,

Swallowing the sounds of your style.

Woman, you are purple

Calling attention to all things that

Start with the letter “P.”

The royal tresses atop your majestic thoughts

Are bold and deciduous,

But never falling.

Woman you are uncut

Original and layered with Love’s power.

"Writing Saved Me from the Sin of Violence"

no poetry, no peace.