Save the Earth
I struggle to breathe
Carbon dioxide in the atmosphere
Continuously you feed.
I am living in fear.
Connected to the Earth
You come to Sell
Your craft everyday
Tourist come to buy
Glass, plastic, shell.
Body Count
Because to me, it means nothing; it’s just a number
It gives me no validation nor brings me shame
I, My Grandmother
My grandmother seasoned Saturday soups with songs,
but never the ones from the land she left behind.
She anointed my scalp with oil,
plaited my hair with prayers,
spooned love with the chocho into my mouth.
gaze
don’t you dare break her gaze
don’t your dare break the chain
the stories must live on
we don’t exist
it has come to my attention that we don't exist
we the colourful the fluid the bold the open the rule benders…
A Triptych on My Queerness
Even after all these years
I still scared to say these words in public,
still caustous
to let Gay spilt my teeth open
being straight
being straight was like living in a closet
I didn’t know was a closet
some wealthy person’s closet
with enough room and variety
to convince me I wasn’t trapped
NESTED
My gratitude for your kindness was never expressed
For I was too young to be grateful
Too young to care, understand, or appreciate
You blessed three little girls of color
And valued their mother, a loyal worker for years
Too LOUD
I spoke loud with my red dress on,
The one that had the split on the sides.
Yeah, that one.
Freedom
Basic freedom was denied
And daily I cried.
Labeled as the “weaker sex”
Taunted mercilessly. My soul grew vex.
Wretched. Worthless
An imbecile. Senseless.
Bra-less
I look up with my head high
Shoulders back
And a smile on my lips
Unafraid
Unashamed
Free
Ouroboros
Through all layers and fits it slithered
Though still I scrambled to look decent
Open Secrets
Since I last saw you I’ve been thinking. Thinking about you. Thinking about us, about home, about those kids whose journey mirrors yours and mine, A journey walking with fear.
The Weight of my Feminity
Heavy is the weight of my femininity,
But a weight I will bare until a change has come
Praying for her Nádleehi
She wanted the baby to be okay. Slowly the vision started and she knew, she knew the way that mothers’ know. She knew that this was her child, even though the person in her vision was not a baby, not even a small child, she knew that this was her baby and yes her child was beautiful.
To the men in my area
I’m tired of writing about this
I’m tired of writing this
I’m tired of being handed material
I Am Woman.
I know my rights.
I know my strengths.
I know my history.
A Jamaican Ode to the Spring Equinox
We don’t have spring,
summer, autumn, winter.
We live in green days
that throb with the steel-pan
rhythm of rain on zinc roofs
Intersections of fate
Reyna was 21, but looked and to some extent felt 16; like she hadn’t matured a day beyond the age she discovered the “oddness,” she sensed about herself, had a name.