Dear old friend

Who are you to open this door

And in your own time?

And where is the blessing I am owed?




I wonder why

Only God himself

would put white boy in brown womb

And will their coming save his mother?


how many miracles will rattle beneath his milk skin

speak in tongue and toothless

And when calvary comes,

whose hands will tie her noose?


I have hollowed this womb in search

of rebirth)

but this skin is too unclean for salvation-

too flesh and ripe


But what does salvation know of rotting carcass

Of anything but honeyed shrines to pale pale Gods?

And how does this sweetness catch my breath and clench my lungs





do not speak

your tongue is stronger than

this spine


you will not carry this


to term

But you do not fight alone




Like many things, I have a complicated

relationship with my blackness.

I have learned to hate a great many sins into it

which I am now unlearning –

all this contort,

all this bendback

in all this deepdark;

a colonized blackness would have this queer woman

at war with herself.


And what is it to love this black despite


and into so much hate?

and yet i know the monster is hungry to collect my bones on his way out


Who is counting my dead

What is it to be whole again


Can you swim in whiteness until you are wading, girl?

But there is no air in these waves


And that tongue will not keep you afloat.


One thought on “Wading

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