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We need brave poems, cleansing poems, poems of grief and dancing. These are those poems.



Toi Derricotte, Award-Winning Poet, Professor of Writing

at the University of Pittsburgh, Co-Founder

of Cave Canem Foundation



these hands





my mother said my hair was like moss
difficult to comb into the pillow
at the crown of my head
she melted it fine
and pulled, pulled it free from itself
thousands of nooses without the knots

i cut the nooses free
gathered and twisted and curled
and colored the knots
the forbidden, the embarrassing
the backdoor, the kitchen
into sun, agate, dark rum, fizzy mexican coca-cola
and north african oil with herbs at the bottom of wide
dolloped vases of warm glass,
beginning as teardrops
fallen now

i took the stories that made me
out of the scream of my arrival
the vinyl and chrome couch of 1977
in front of the six million dollar man
and the bad news bears
the girl, the mushroom, tiny, hiding
hooded thing that i was
touched i was, in the worst ways
eating tears, eating doughnuts,
eating anything that would fill me

into someone larger than i could imagine
into someone strong
into backbone and healer
into the visitor who would tell you
all about yourself and herself too into
this body without children
except the one i hold close between my breasts
that i screamed into making
scream from between the lips that suffered
from between the lips that would not speak
the lips tasted by the lips
that would taste hers

scream, scream, scream

now, these lips curved, plentiful
tell and tell and tell
they were told to shut up long ago

the voice box
the brown and red voice
box that came from two brown necks
and two before that
was called a white girl
an oreo

who you tryin' to be, anyway?

they told me the color of my voice
before i knew the language to fight back
they told me i wasn't one of them
far from who i thought i was

white girl
white girl
you tryin’ to be a white girl

but all i knew was my mother’s tongue
all i knew came from the alice in wonderland records
that taught me how to read

i tried to abandon
national geographics and dictionaries
pippi and the mysteries and the magazines
for a language that was more acceptable
my mother tongue was a tattoo that i modified
but never abandoned

i read aloud
listening to the nuances i’ve created
the resonance that burnishes the girl voice
with tobacco and time
rum and crying
into this voice you hear now
that sings when no one’s looking
to jesus and lovers i trust

i am looking below my knees now
and there are scars
i have decided
to turn the clusters and stripes
into constellations
i will have the scars
no, the stars make an order
something larger than me or my shins
into orion, zeus, mars and leo

take what shame tried to make
into your hands and turn it into something else
change your color
to your wish
into something new
something of your own making

perhaps you will be as proud as i
when a new friend remarks to your mother

you gave birth to imani?

no, she gave birth to herself. 





donna summer





thank god it’s friday

was at the top of the lp stack

my best friend and i

read the liner notes

and studied the illustrations

between the folds of this cardboard angel,

a double-record set

promising a disco salvation

polyester wrap dresses

glitter and long dark curly locks

magenta on lips and cheeks

gold, gold, gold


she was provocative

sensual, suggestive

and i understood it

even then


disco wasn’t the truth, exactly

but it was the projection of the dream

that everyone was worthy of desire


her songs were tempera polaroids,

spinning, jewel-toned mid-calf skirts and capezio leotards

lithe and charming men

co-authoring the illusion


it was 1979

osko’s disco was on la cienega

but at school

pop-locking brown boys with soft afros beneath applejack caps cut breakbeats from side to side with their thumbs

their hips turnstyling syncopations

hip hop was on the horizon


i could have listened to donna always

and i wouldn’t have stopped

but, at 12 i ran away from home

very nearly into the arms of street commerce

bad girls was always on the radio


they bought me white jeans

tight

and cut my straightened hair into a small afro

played donna summer songs

and encouraged me to sing along


sexy

i started to feel sexy

desirable

not like a dirty heap of flesh to poke

not something that shameful things happened to


i was changing the story

i could be powerful, i thought

i could decide who touched me

money had nothing to do with it

choice was the currency

so were the new clothes

so were the chips and candy

as much as i wanted

from the liquor store across the street


I wouldn't have survived it

I know that now


so many manipulations

so many people touching me

wanting something

what was it that drew them to me

i used to think that i was a dirty key

to a dirty lock that lived in men


it wasn’t donna summer’s fault

that her songs were on the radio

it wasn’t her fault

that predators used her music

to convince me that i was making a choice


what choice could a runaway make in 1979

between getting beaten or heavy hands late at night

my father making sure that my mother was asleep

braiding forever

the pure sexuality, that was my birthright

with him

it's the snare that i unhitch


every

time

i

touch


in those days,

in the movies

disco was white

but in real life, it wasn’t

it looked like donna summer

sienna, bronze, fuchsia and cobalt blue

that's the way it was

the way it really was

i strain to see the colors

through those hard, hard days


forty years later

on the radio came on in the car

i wept as i sang, allowing myself again, finally

remembering my innocent connection to her music remembering how excited my best friend and i were

when we faced each other, smiling widely

our mouths filled with baby teeth

as we sang her songs,

the lp spinning between us





frida





despite the judas body, she painted

the body that cut their son into pieces
and still she painted

garden flowers in her hair, a rebozo on her shoulders
she painted

her diego
found the flesh of women irresistible
as did she
irresistible

if i were her lover
i would caution the seams
the cut and sewn parts

she would hold me
in the same mouth warmed by posole, chili
her lick, a sliver of flan
with caramel at the tip

i would coax the sweet
peel back the bristle
to find the tender waiting
becoming the taste of what tastes it

her paintings follow me
they come as cards, trinkets
from women, always

the jewelry
the paintings
the tiny altars and books
tell me
speak

you must speak
cough the ribbons of your tongue free
lick the flesh that calls you
ink fingertips when you cannot find a brush
walls when canvas is not nearby
put flowers in your hair
the big, gorgeous ones from your garden
wear the colors of your own flag
create when baffled
create when sorrowful
abandon the prickle of fear
and be of your own making
begin from deep, deep
feel the tremor
the push, the work root
the quaking blossom
of who you really are

let light
let you
be free


pure





put light there

keep the tonic pure


my body belongs to me again


i severed the agreement


i emerge

bones, strong

and limber, so limber


i see myself now

in the clean reflection

smell of seawater and wildflowers

my locs, a dark, dark brown

my hands and feet, capable and wide


i am new

beautiful, essential

in the morning

see everything shine



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