I have never been anything like pink
a child becomes a girl     and finally     when she heads for the dawn
there is one long road to M.     from Y.     a bus goes by every thirty
minutes
when she missed the bus     the girl
walked with a large brown bag     in the dark daytime
on a road lined with black woods on both sides
when a raven     flew over
she called out, “Poe”
Poe’s “The Raven”     and Prison without Bars     were her only partners
to talk to
even now     she can dream     of that long road     sometimes the
characteristic whizzing
wind of Musashino     carried off the girl’s black bobbed hair
childlike human beings      go walking on it like black specks

even though I call out     come here     I will put you on my palm
the girl     can’t hear me
because she is walking in
the gray cloudy weather     where time’s rain     of tens of years ago is
about to fall
the road     where the child became a girl     and finally
heads for dawn     is broken

Our Black bodies, sacred.
Our Black bodies, holy.

Our bodies, our own.
Every smile a protest.
Every laugh a miracle.

Piece by piece we stitch ourselves back together.
This Black girl body
that gets dragged out of school desk, slammed onto floor,
tossed about at pool side, pulled over and pushed onto grass,
arrested, never to return home,
shot on doorsteps, on sofas while sleeping 
and dreaming of our next day.

Our bodies, a quilt that tells the story of the middle passage.
Of roots yanked and replanted.

Our bodies, a mosaic of languages forgotten,
of freedom songs and moaned prayers.

Our bodies no longer
disregarded, objectified, scrutinized.

Our bodies, our own.
Every smile a protest.
Every laugh a miracle.

Our bodies rising. 
Our feet marching, legs dancing, our bellies birthing, hands raising, 
our hearts healing, voices speaking up.

Our bodies.
So Black, so beautiful.

Here, still.
Rising, rising.

Fuss, fight, and cutting the huckley-buck—Dear Malindy,
Underground, must I always return to the country of the dead,

To the coons catting about in the trees, the North Carolina pines
Chattering about sweetening bodies in their green whirring?

Do these letters predict my death—some sound of a twig
Breaking then a constant drowning—a butter bean drying

Beneath my nails? Casket, rascal, and corn bread cooling board.
Dear Malindy, when the muskrats fight in the swamp I knows

It’s you causing my skull to rattle. You predicted my death
With my own baby teeth and a rancid moon beneath our legs.

No girl, my arm still here. The antlers on the mantle yet quiet.
All the ocean’s water without me and yet in me. Never mind,

Malindy. They already shot the black boy on the road for dying
Without their permission. Yes, gal, I put on my nice suit. And wait.

burgeons through my pores
bringing its small, itchy sores. Cuts
through my hands and stubbles up
enough to be visible when fitted
skin-tight to a mirror. One day,
I was standing so close you could
see each pore and I’d pluck until
every red-and-Black follicle knew
no hair was welcomed here.
Now they sprout and I’m foolish
with joy at every conjuring of
a bush. Every prick rubbing
their way through my patchy
happy face. Who will teach me
how to shave? YouTube, I guess
til my bois get this far. I wonder
if every beard grows like this: into
a nest made with oil and hope. Into
a boi made with oil after they threw
away the rope. I guess I’ll put
that in the search bar too: did it feel
good? To stop running from yourself?