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massa come in like he know i caint cry
new tears
he take what he want
he keep a hot hand
every new hatred
cinch my throat closed.
he take me
give me a name made outta iron
he say it til i ain’t myself
i, sheet rock.
i, a salted wound.
i the upset of everything,
unholy,
this.
From Anarcha Speaks: A History in Poems. Copyright © 2018 by Dominique Christina. Reprinted with permission from Beacon Press, Boston, Massachusetts.
That morning he woke up and coupled
With his wife unceremoniously threw a leg
Over the bed after, sat up and told her
What they needed was more negroes
Like sayin you need to pick up milk from the store
Like sayin you outta eggs and corn meal
It was a simple thing you know…
The statement and the weightlessness
Of it like a shrug or a wink
More women like the other three
Ruined somehow from the inside
His house would be a city of resurrection maybe
Or medical marvel…
we once was warriors
bone sharp and tangling up
wit whatever wild was in the world
before some ships rolled in
wit folk we ain’t never seen
brandin iron and bullet men
claimin everythin
leavin misery
one night we slip out
slick as paste and quiet
nighttime stubborn
keep a heat anyhow
sky blurred wit fever
i sweat my kerchief loose
we layin out
we lookin up
we shook wit night wind
we knees up, drift wood.
i say:
what you make a dem stars?
he say:
they just like us. sizzlin dead.