black lives matter

in this city of black and white, where we lie
to ourselves about who is a human being, where we lie
on the street for four hours killed, our corpses feasts
for the eyes of media vultures flapping their wings,
desperately scavenging meaning,
new souls enter the world

we tell ourselves they matter, all these new lives matter
we keep watch over their heart tones even before they arrive
unaware of whose yellow bumps and jagged lines are whose
and we rush into their rooms and tell their mothers to push
and we yank these new souls out of their wombs

in this city of black and white, some births are joy
and tears and tears of joy streaming down the cheeks of
all the cheerleaders whose breath fogs the windows
at the sight of baby's blue-green-hazel-gray eyes

some births are unceremonious
some mothers reach out for a hand in a cold room where there is no hand
just a human in scrubs and sterile gloves at the end of the bed
who can't hold her hand back
who will welcome her black baby into a cruel world
into a cruel home north of delmar where there is no food
and baby will grimace in an incubator with eyes unadmired
and the sterile gloves will sew up her tears
and pretend that both of them aren't bleeding their way to a slow death

the end of sin

the end of sin is a sickening sock to the gut
a dark place that suddenly became darker
the way to the light at the end of the tunnel
is spelunking without a headlamp and brushing
up against the stalactites you were never
supposed to touch.

in this quiet cave i feel the seasons pass
the times i vowed to crawl forward dance like marionettes
suspended by my heart strings, one painful hop at a time,
the escape artist deluding herself with thoughts of siddartha
from the palace to the mountain, from sin to sanyasi

the darkness has weathered me

i wish to renounce

dip

in a parallel universe my eyes betrayed me
we jumped in the water and the mosquitos danced
around our exposed flesh and the sun in a moment
of modesty hid itself beneath the horizon

delivery

knowing the shape of your fingernails
the strange way they grow in uneven shapes
even when you cut them deliberately, perfectly
knowing, noticing without trying to pay attention
is love.

there is some love that you feel like waves rippling
over sand between your toes, ebbing and flowing,
pulling and dragging, vacillating, but calmly connecting you
to the earth.

there is some love that drags you out to sea
takes you far from the sand and keeps you afloat
as it destroys you, pulling you to the center
of the earth.

there is some love you were simply meant to feel
beating on your shoulders like the cold massage
of a waterfall, to revel, to dream for a moment
an experience you were meant to collect and discard
like the crescent moons and the thickened bands
of your clippings