Not Yet A Rainbow




First you tell me race is a social construct
to separate. Isn’t it true
everyone loves a rainless day?
Wouldn’t a raceless day be wonderful?
But you can’t take it away
from me.
You can’t tell me I’m not a race.
That I don’t exist.
I’m not a rainbow yet.


Tell them race doesn’t exist.

Every day. Those
(secret) jokes or eyes
when I walk by.
They are angry;
They are wary and afraid!
And I’m ashamed
I am hunched over, carrying
all white crimes.
This skin defines me.


I want
to be different. I want to


slice off all my skin and burn
it till it is red and black from the fire.
With only my muscles and bones to show


he was maxwell

In my father’s arms is a newborn boy
beautiful as God—
no: a softer, kinder beauty—
lamb’s ears
milk chocolate
cabbage butterflies and nets
that catch then let go…

He is stunning in his inhumanness—
a flushed piglet with a
torso like a crumpled bag of flour, and
fatly folded thighs that nestle
themselves into Daddy’s
aged skin
as he squeals…

He must be my child, my breath
was never more absent, or my eyes
and heart
so wet.

The Weight I Freely Carry

This is loosely what became of the Stream of Consciousness exercise I did a few weeks ago. I originally wrote this immediately after, but decided to edit it and approach the subject more positively. 


My thighs are fat as sows
Fat and white spreading over the toilet seat.
In between them is the red blood
almost like ribbons,
and the little clots that sink.

When I see this redness, I see my child-
Little girl in her friend’s bathroom after
a rush down there, a yell—
No more girl.
She is gone, replenished

with one who
loves her period,
will love the nine month absence of this gift
for a greater one,
will cry
when it is gone.

Sometimes I dip down
and smell the fresh blood
caught in my pad
and I think
This is me, This
Proof of what my body can do!
No man can carry this weight.
No man can feed a child from the inside.

Tea Rose Nostalgia

As I remember his visage, tea roses leap from my stomach.
Medium-regulation haircut, coffee, like his stand-still eyes.
Callused, frank hands touch mine.
Like an evergreen, I shall be cut down by such hands.
They have killed, hardened, cracked, endured.
They will nourish and soften.
They will tickle his daughter’s tiny pink feet, through her slippers.
They will hold other hands.

He would tell me beautiful things, and I would tell him he was crazy
He’d ask why, and I’d say, “Smell the grassy, earthy air in the spring.
Taste the lilac and moss. Stand under the shade of an oak,
and then say to me there is a greater beauty.”

Oh, how I miss him!
Or… those pale pink roses leaping from my stomach.

To Elephants That Roam

Written: August 30th, 2014
Revised: December 18th, 2014



Oh dear hides, leather hides
that beat back the angry sand—
how do I become you?
How do I reach down, grasp
my own tough skin?

Tell me how to roam
the plain with perseverance
Teach me to run and play and eat and rut
and mourn
Show me how to mourn—
Guide my child down
to the ground
Show me how to pack the dirt
so he won’t feel cold

Tell me every year when to visit
his bones.


I wish I could say
almost babies live special kinda lives
for awhile
the sun ain’t blowin’ up, she’s just mad
My mama will live forever
and my daddy will live for her
and my brother will just live
Wish it were true
that Jesus, God, and my lover loved me
victims were glorified for surviving
and the ‘glorified’ were more ashamed.
Wish I was not ashamed–
Swim against the fish that bolt from the jaws of conservatism only to
find themselves in the belly of a bigger fish.
Cry in front of a friend because my mouth is not made for words but puddles of passion.
Say I deserve better than a love triangle
between me him and Mary-Jane.
Say I am sorry and I am on my own.