an accepted finalist of agnes scott’s college poetry contest in 2020 and subsequently published in agnes scott writer’s festival magazine.
“me, at my first funeral”
when my momma lay me down to rest, i hope my grave black as me-- the colorless epitome of brown i'd ever seen, a wash of endless light when you gaze my casket, as ashy as can be like stepping out of a shower not meant to clean yourself in but cleanse yourself in: an absolving shower, the soap + shampoo + oils in the crevices and i attempt, for maybe the third time this week (it’s only tuesday) to drown myself in these waters so shallow my reflection doesn't compare like it would on a casket as black as me
when my baby plants lawn flowers, i pray those sunflowers stretch farther than my smile towards our star-- the petals melting in our charleston, old plantation heat beating on her tiny hands while she toils and my brown skin, turned purple, lights up for a moment in the depths of the dirt under the worms + swamps + bodies of unclaimed bones just as baked as my brown, maybe darker; the roots grow tall and the stem touches a freedom, a peace of mind so fine its seeds split open in a grin, spilling on my white smile, stretched in a laugh
when daddy sits this parade out, my small washed up body delivered before the soft, creased hands of the women in my life while they cook all the things i'd wish to eat: the gator's fatty insides, the call of the deer cooked in rice, the mashed sweetness of those orange potatoes, the sugar rush of rainwater + lemonade ; and when they are done, he gobbles it up and prays, in the lord's name, that no baby was his baby like this baby
my sister will have to dig me up
when she brushes off the debris, pats my curls of the uncleanliness, kisses my forehead, and closes that grave, she'll whisper into my chest
your heart beats different,
your voice sounds changed,
whatever happened under there
you're blacker after losing your chains.
when my baby plants lawn flowers, i pray those sunflowers stretch farther than my smile towards our star-- the petals melting in our charleston, old plantation heat beating on her tiny hands while she toils and my brown skin, turned purple, lights up for a moment in the depths of the dirt under the worms + swamps + bodies of unclaimed bones just as baked as my brown, maybe darker; the roots grow tall and the stem touches a freedom, a peace of mind so fine its seeds split open in a grin, spilling on my white smile, stretched in a laugh
when daddy sits this parade out, my small washed up body delivered before the soft, creased hands of the women in my life while they cook all the things i'd wish to eat: the gator's fatty insides, the call of the deer cooked in rice, the mashed sweetness of those orange potatoes, the sugar rush of rainwater + lemonade ; and when they are done, he gobbles it up and prays, in the lord's name, that no baby was his baby like this baby
my sister will have to dig me up
when she brushes off the debris, pats my curls of the uncleanliness, kisses my forehead, and closes that grave, she'll whisper into my chest
your heart beats different,
your voice sounds changed,
whatever happened under there
you're blacker after losing your chains.