POETRY

Last night.
A tribute to Breonna Taylor and for Black Women who were forced to be strong today and everyday.

I draped my body in my white bedsheets

Before I could see the piercing brightness of the

Moon from my window.

I closed my eyes, though I remained awake

Thinking about her.

Would I be next?

Would I ever feel the soft feathers of the

Pillow that broke years ago,

That often dusted across my white walls

And landed along my faded grey carpet in the morning?

Should I sleep?

Am I granted that luxury?

I felt the twitch of my leg and shot my eyes open

To see the dark of the room and a faint stain of red on my wall. 

The cramps in my lower stomach became noticeable

And I processed the wet liquid that was dripping

Down my leg and underneath my abdomen.

Before I let out an audible scream

—The last time I thought I would hear my own voice—

I touch that wet spot with a racing heart

And steady fingers.

I reached over to the bedside where I saw

My alarm clock

—Whose red font is almost blinding at the peak of the night—

slightly reflecting 4:27 am

On my wall. I turn on my night light and

While blinding myself,

I see the fresh red spot on my bed

And my soiled underwear.

I’d just started my period.

I looked down at my hands

Still covered with the blood that

Flows from my own vagina and

Felt a tear drop fall in relief and in sorrow.

I slowly crawled out of bed

And walked to the bathroom

and rinsed my hands.

I thought about her again.

Then, I could no longer hold back the tears.

six months (a tribute and a eulogy)

I envy those cold January mornings now,

The whisper of the Chicago wind chill that 

Always broke through the slight crack

At the top of my window they could never fix,

And broke the cuffs of my seasonal depression 

That trapped me to the Twin XL bed 

I learned to be comfortable in.

Every Wednesday, it was like this. 

On some Wednesday mornings, 

the wind would be accompanied 

by a white blanket of snow.

Other days, it would simply be the soft grey skies.

I could walk out of my room, 

Not a thought of fear or discomfort,

As I showered away the remains of the 

Thoughts that made me believe 

Life was a pointless endeavor. 

I would walk back through the 

Yellow hallways that sometimes felt never-ending

Due to their familiarity, 

Sit down on the floor of my room 

And allow the wind to dry me off; till I felt cold enough

To put on the same grey sweater I wore the day before,

And the weeks previous. 

I could walk out of my room

And block out the sound of my door 

Slamming with my earphones, walk to the end 

of the hallway where sometimes the 

elevator dinged at my presence.

I could take those dramatic strides 

and make myself known

among the others who lived with me in

That ivory tower.

I would walk down those stairs, 

Pass through the double doors that got blocked

By kids whose alarms weren’t loud enough

And were already forty minutes late 

to their fifty-minute class.

I’d glance at the dining hall 

before walking into that café

And opting-in to spend another $10 on 

iced coffee and chocolate croissants,

And out of habit, stayed there another four hours with 

assignments, text messages and YouTube. 

I’d get bored of that place.

So I’d venture out and hold hands with the wind,

Pass the museum,

And walk into another set of glass double doors

And ride another set of elevators.

On the other side of the doors, they stand.

The skyline peaks behind the clouds and the 

Ivory tower that I slept in every night.

I still carry my problems

As I sit next to them all, 

But for the moments that we’re together,

I feel a world where those problems are gone.

The warm hugs and laughs,

The tears, accomplishments,

A sense of happiness and belonging;

Hope among living stars.

Six months.

thoughts I had biking down 57th street

I saw Arbery's and other familiar names on a white piece of paper outside of a church. 

There was this white woman walking behind me with a stroller and her baby clapped 

to the rubber of the wheels hitting the concrete. I stopped biking and pulled over to the side. 

I adjusted my shorts and looked up at the stroller again and white lady that walked past me. 

I wondered if there was a gun underneath the hood of the stroller and if I would end up another 

name on a church wall. There were cars driving next to us-campus was still pretty busy. 

But would those cars stop for the little black girl riding her bike through campus? I would swear 

that I am a student and I’m allowed to be here but my voice would drown away by another 

shot possibly. So what happens now? Who would miss me? Would my friends come to my 

funeral? Did he really love me? Did I tweet something wrong? What if I did? Would they find

 a photo of me in a hoodie or in a skirt too short? Does that mean I deserved it?

 Did I deserve it? Did they deserve it? Did we deserve it? Did we deserve it?

I start pedaling again.

a safe place

the sour smell of fallen magnolias 

and the whispers of the dead pine

at the end of the autumn equinox.

at the end of the road lays that

 patch of grass next to the

broken pavement that is replaced

more often than my prescription of prozac that I take

every day at 4pm under

that tall black tree

that protects that 

broken pavement more than

anything or anyone in this place.

I kiss that black tree and

lay on the wooden bench beneath it

and observe that broken pavement,

the way that yesterdays rain covers 

her like a warm blanket 

and I lick the remaining white powder

of prozac along my lips, jealous 

of the way this black tree,

the storm from the night before—

jealous of what nature has chosen to protect

norpramin

The steam of the bathroom forms a rope around her neck 

And brings her on her knees to bow down and give pleasure to death. 

She opens her mouth for him,

But he fades away and the dripping of water down her face. 

She stays on all fours, waiting for him to come back.

He doesn’t.

blackberries

Crimson drips from the 

Sycamore tree where they hanged

That dull, black, body

The noose around her

Neck drips with crimson as well

And on his white tounge

She warms him once more

Her body now takes the form

Of the master’s slave

The noose around her

Neck drips in threes on her chest

A line on her chest

She had her mothers

Breasts that took care of them all

Look as they now fall

In bright mourning of

The white sin that her daughter

Now takes to the grave

because she was the

Sun-kissed berry he liked to taste

Before the sun sets

There is a bit left 

Of her on that forsaken tongue 

He spits it all out.