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
I dare you to leave.
Un-hold my hand
and pack your regrets
in the black bag with yellow lining
and remnants of my heart.
The kids will watch
and I will cry uncontrollably
in the corner
where the cup
of very black
and strong coffee
just barely missed your head.
I am not yours.
This life is not ours.
I cannot compete
with the beauty of your secrets.
Take your toothbrush
and don’t forget:
This is not a love thing.
This is not a revolution.
This is us…
It’s so hard to be myself with you,
combing the bookstore
excited about the lyrics of
Kafka, Baldwin and Alvarez,
knowing you want me to hurry
and get back home
to where you can be disappointed with the dinner
and my sadness.
you will sit in your chair and forget
to wash the dishes,
forget to comb your hair,
forget to return calls,
and forget that once I was part of
the things that made you happy
Sometimes in between burning the rice
And being sad,
I forget that
"I love you as certain dark things are to be loved
in secret, between the shadow and the soul"
I will always love you…
Because you appeared just when
the books collapsed,
stood at the table
the top layer of my woman hood,
and the frail points of every angle
I have formed.
I took you in,
biting your flesh ‘til the ugly parts showed.
You liked it.
We read the pages of life,
colored faces with no identities;
masculine versus feminine
and broken unions
swept under the dust.
My legs warned you.
I will not break here.
So, I fold you in my creases and save you for later.
What are we doing?
How did it come to this?
I’m tearing the pages from the books
and reading the stories in breaths.
The light is on
and mahogany arms grab you,
to where I can’t reach.
You told mommy you hated her today,
but I knew
that was a lie.
You held that Heineken bottle tightly,
like your nephew
clinging to his favorite blanket.
Your sturdy hands were shaking and I witnessed the privacy of your afflictions in your dialect
and sweaty forehead.
There is a story to tell,
I promise one day I will tell the world that all the odds were against you
and that Barbados raised you alone.
I will not leave out the flawlessness of your swaying body
against Kartel tunes
or the cod fish and rice with lentils
in the winter.
The liability isn’t all yours.
I know the pain rides you.
But we are loners, brother.
We live in a land where we must "honor thy mother and thy father"
or we won't live long enough to see our tears trace the city like bridges.
There are no morals to your story,
only a restricted beginning
forging an appetite for women
But, you are not the “Prodigal Son”
you are a father and brother,
rising before day
to iron your clothes
and begin your hustle,
because “the early bird catches the worm”
and you are destined to fly above lifeless expectations
speaking the language of the stars.
You were never an illusion, or fiasco,
you have not failed.
When you spoke to mommy today,
those lies didn’t bandage my revelations.
You wanted to be held,
you drank your Heineken and sat down.
Mommy, sobbed in the corner
and I smoked a cigarette at the table,
as our sister was yelling something about telling you to leave,
while our children were asleep in the back room.
Who will tell your story?
There are Bajan dreams dying
on the inside of a man.
There are remnants of his nightmares
stirring his nostalgic sorrows.
Marijuana stained secrets
relating to his
insensible one-night stands
and there are people walking by,
We are loners, brother.
We rip the flesh off bones of truth;
There are hills in our backs and jungles in our souls.
We walk on frayed ankles,
born as Bajan pariahs
and American misfits;
we scream quietly.
We know no mothers
or the love that comes in between.
No one understands us.
I sung a black girl’s song today,
I will tell your story.
"We Are Loners (for my brother)" has been published by The Write Launch in Poetry Issue five, September 2017
These are my hands
And how it will come-
if it will
And when it will leave-
when it does.
and I have never been certain
about what these hands could do
if they could scorch
those who have broken my heart
if they could nurture what’s been left
unopened in me
if they would tell my secrets…
A stench of rubbing alcohol
mixed with the aroma of indifference
He isn’t old,
married but never knew love,
tugging at his waist and ankles
but never a father.
Get up! Mr. Fool!
Your legs may be broken
but your heart continues to resonate.
Get up! Show Harlem
that you are a man…
"Father" has been published in the book Brown Molasses Sunday: An Anthology of Black Women Writers, May 2015
you’re gonna walk into this house,
and I won’t be here.
I would’ve taken all the pictures
off the walls,
and you’ll sit down and say,
“Damn I miss her.”
You will start to familiarize yourself
with my thickness in your nostrils,
and my brown skin wrapped tightly
‘round your butterscotch,
and you will kick yourself in the ass,
for not noticing me much at all.
Your hands won’t want to construct,
nor your tongue the desire to taste
and while I’m moving around
some place in a poem,
you will take both your shoes off,
and want to go find me.
the way I see it is
I won’t be available
and this situation won’t need my tears,
you’ll stop and say:
“Damn I miss her”
and then you’ll notice,
you’ve been trapped,
gritty, reckless, graffiti-colored nomad,
surfing the subway in kaleidoscope dreams,
always expecting more, giving less,
to women and baby boys
who took your face,
and examined your edges.
My lips won’t reach for you,
you’ll just sit down and say,
“Damn, I miss her”