I know about,
stubborn doors of nakedness,
in the moonlight,
onto Harlem doorsteps.
& I hum,
I’ve never heard,
that will not un-sing itself;
a sort of lyrical madness,
in the space
where the homeless
man and woman
who were dead,
in a tiny silk box.
The murals paint your
wild blonde hair
with poetic ceremonies;
they cannot sweep you away. And as you cradled your losses
& formed screaming walls
into mad speeches,
the magic of the untamed
speak to me.
They provoke chaotic beginnings,
living where everything ends,
assembling my life;
so that I can once again
It is now,
that I know,
there are some things in this world
that speak magic, and like you,
those things are
exquisitely uncultivated; feral
and they whisper a language that shouldn’t be tamed
"Magic (for Cynthia Cruz)" has been published by K'in spring 2019
I lie on a bed
been my favorite
and I have always
wanted to be
by a man or God.
I have given my
to this loneliness
I feel at night.
it believes in me
& as I,
fold my frail tears
and hunched back
in the beginnings
of the sky
count the slits
in my heart
because if no one
else will love me
On every corner, on every block
a black child beams,
somewhat slipping but gripping ,
onto a black dream.
You appear on television quite fancy,
rocking Gucci shirts, pants and boots,
a little Prada, a little Versace,
and let’s not forget those Armani suits.
But what are you doing for those black dreams?
Are you holding them or letting them go?
You should be moving fast, so the dreams don’t pass,
but instead you’re moving slow.
Excuse me Mr. Michael Jordan,
I just wanna look nice,
A young black boy goes to purchase Jordan’s,
but gets discouraged by the price.
Oh and excuse me Mr. P.Diddy,
I wanna be just like you,
but saw “you” on “Making the Band”
and you were mean and cocky too.
And what about you Mr. Government?
Whose dreams are you rooting for?
Only thing I see you wanna do,
is bring the black dreams to war.
In every city, in every state,
there is a black dream looking to flow,
one black child is holding on,
while many are letting go.
And on every corner, every block,
a little faith begins to beam,
there is a black child slipping but gripping
onto a black dream…
There is a young
with a navy coat
giving light to a burgundy dress
sitting on an orange square.
Images stain my mind like the chocolate ice cream
that fell from its cone
and hit the pavement,
She is time
the moon of mercy
and the shadows of an opaque
unable to comprehend the connection between her
love and war.
hopes too much.
She is pregnant with delusions
and peaceful train rides to hell.
She is there and I am here
looking at my past;
seeking the familiarity,
no red lipstick,
no short hair,
or tiny wrinkles.
She is flaunting her adolescence
wearing her burgundy dress;
single with unoccupied desires,
and two muscular hands,
minus the hitting of fists
against her cheeks.
Her womb is not yet full.
She is a woman,
not yet tainted
by one second lovers
or no mother/father syndrome
in a home without heat.
She is the past.
Everything I wanna forget
but keep on embracing.
She is marriage
who carries the rain in her hips
and rides the night winds.
She is a womangirl.
Young brown skinned
hiding in a navy coat.
Then I remember,
Her burgundy dress.
I remember that
this used to be a poem
I am no longer dancing
I am not even in between…
"Girl in Burgundy Dress" has been published in the book Brown Molasses Sunday: An Anthology of Black Women Writers, May 2015
You pack him a lunch;
turkey and cheese
inside two buildings;
hide them in his backpack.
He goes to school on the
noisy yellow bus
and make friends
in the corners of his classroom.
They talk about trains and buses
on the MTA
and pretend to be cousins.
“What did you learn today?”
“C’mon, I know you learned something new.”
“Just the same old things, math, science and reading”
You ask if he needs your help with homework:
You ask if he needs help hanging up his clothes:
But before you know it,
he is on the phone chatting with his amigo
telling him about CGI,
his deep blue XBOX,
his little brother
and all the things
that excited him in between getting off the bus
and forgetting about the
turkey and cheese sandwich
smashed at the bottom of his backpack…
"One Day Your Son Will Stop Telling You Things" has been published in The City College of New York's Poetry in Performance Vol.46, September 2018
Now this, you are more broken than you can understand:
like Van Gogh’s Starry Night hanging in some famous
person’s living room while their hiding in the back
closet ripping to shreds the thinness of their
heart. The war cries bob off your chest
and there are mystery noises
draining from your belly.
I’m tired of writing about you
this way and like this and
that and every thing else
that is sin and ache and the possibility
of you aimlessly in love but never getting to me.
I caught you sleeping with your mouth open last night
and I smelled the inconsistency of love and war. You can’t save
yourself or me, from you. If I don’t give up now I may never see you smile.
Who will tire from writing about me?
Tonight I wonder if God is here:
in the moonlight
scaling the walls of mold
burning this plastic mattress
in the same fire He used
to speak to Moses
I wonder if He can hear the agony
of being un-fleshed
the ripping of the sky;
exposing wounds of earth
upon my ever questionable salvation
& in the morning I wonder if He will speak:
attuned to the agony
that lies beneath my brittle faith
where the anticipation of survival
tries to cross my beating heart
it’s not as easy
as you would think,
to unstitch oneself
of your own desires.
like when you want to call
about their sorrow,
too caught up
how you want to say something
to your neighbor
about their apparent
suffering with your own
your ice cream is melting
and if you don’t move quickly
you may ruin your new shoes.
you begin to listen
to the paint chipping off the walls
& you’re content
& attached to yourself;
the only one that matters anyway
to unravel yourself from you
but you can’t
& you won’t
& there is nothing
that will make you
About this mouth
but is well aware
death is inevitable.
That mouth that
licks the thick sweet syrup
off your lips,
and screams “I need you”
as it welcomes a hearty
The smutty lipstongue,
that articulates unfinished secrets.
The labial vehicle
that sleep talks,
sings Psalm 91
in a barbaric tongue,
and burns glass bodies.
This mouth; the treacherous sword,
is oral in its performance
of raw entertainment.
Muzzle meter, exotic verbalizer,
filthy, pretty, incinerating torch.
These weighty sacred jaws
is a giftcurse; won’t stop
spilling vocabulary vomit.
It wrecks me.
It wrecks me.
It wrecks me.
"Untitled5" has been published by The Write Launch, in Poetry Issue five, September 2017
Maybe, we all got on the flight to America;
our sister and I shared the window seat;
you sat on mummy's lap
and then she left us.
Maybe, you will have your first birthday in Apt 5A.
Cake, ice cream and our sister’s cries
balanced on the rooftop of grandma’s bad temper.
Then, we grow up sitting stone faced on top of the blue velvet sofa,
silent talking, believing’: “mum’s coming back.”
We brave the brown leather straps; eat Dinty Moore beef stew,
and read stories about siblings who were abandoned
but still humane enough to leave bread for the birds.
I can see us all now; checks stamped to our foreheads,
overweight and voiceless;
Maybe we will love each other?
Subsequently, mum will return with war stories
by courtesy of her husband who proudly smashes her face against the seasons.
But then again, you can always pretend it never happened;
slip out of mummy’s lap,
cry on the white beach of Barbados, pick up your packages from the Mail service,
eat Avocados out of your backyard
and write Christmas cards to the 17-year-old that birthed you…
"Maybe" has been published by Free Library of the Internet Void, June 2018