i did not want to write a poem full of corpses
so i wrote a sacred pink blue sky jeweled on the horizon
laughter as the loudest star sleeps
humor hugs every ache whole
how heavy heads lay after a long day in the humid heat
caribbean moon sighs and joyous dreams
i did not wish to speak
of what should not be spoken
so silence breathed into all
the words, a haunting. i come from
a language that does not write itself, our ancestors speak
hurricane, a thunder tongue shivering tides
and a petty revenge, the mid atlantic is a vexed aunty
rattling rivers and roofs, ready for reckoning
knocking at the chest of men
on the other side of now
there is a door where we return
every island is a hip swaying
between here and there
a float in the dance
to belong
rocking in the arms of the edge
where the sea is an emerald flag
and palm trees praise the air
every shore is an altar
of remembrance
embraced on purpose
pickney of the sun ray
where prayer trembles
the light or how a storm retreats
we marvel and move eternal,
unforeigned and unlost
hips hollering, elbows flapping like fanning flames
bare feet chant in the sand or in a concrete jungle
love taps quake the nape of the earth’s neck
where daughters of diaspora dream
and inherit journeys of flesh
where a smile is also a scar
or how my grandfather came to see about us
years after he died
wearing my uncles face
dimpled and shining eyes
like two wet black beans
baptized by a spirit
rum slapped on his breath
charming man and all he was
checkin on his grandbabies
fear not death
we visit kinfolk there, lingering
in the blood, where the ocean hums
tribe of the great abyss
a notknowing from where or what we come
and still to arrive before they could conquer
us, we came by shipwreck, by wind and wave
pushed into the water
splashing and shaking
the wound teaches us to remember
where tomorrow glows
listen to the animal clawing within
a rooster caws directions between this world and the next
there are roads that cannot be mapped
and there are streets that do not have names
we ran away into the okra tinted mountains
seeking maroon hills
i was born borderless, mounting a dollar van
like an orisha scribbling visions
on a train or in an airport
traveling ritual, voice, and time.
i was born of distance
in between now and then.