house hunting as an act of faith
in the dream i eat the sirens my eyes go bloodshot & i start
speaking in decibels only squirrels & vaginas can
hear everythang emergency sight of red lights criss-
crossing makes me have to pee some part of me always
leaking: sweat cherry kombucha mysterious fluorescent
discharge cheap champagne pain liquified & indelible
toughens my meat but just when i think i’m inedible
somebody always nibbling at my edges i am the square
root of what academia alleges my methodology is breath
seeking a structure where i can exhale reckless where fear
ain’t mudded in the sheetrock & painted milk white where
the walls ain’t out to smother me where the foundation is
cracked just enough for spirit to seep in where i can sleep
amidst a barricade of trees & quiet parades around the house
disguised as technicolor sunset disguised as deer slick with
fog disguised as fig bush draped in snow disguised as
ancestors dark & bright as—
Copyright © 2022 by t’ai freedom ford. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 19, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.
“During the beginning of the pandemic, sirens were ever-present and a great source of anxiety for me—along with the unknowns of the virus, along with Black folks being killed during police stops. Determined to find sanctuary beyond the city, I was on the road a lot and always whispering to my ancestors to provide cover. As in, no stops by cops. As in, full speed ahead. As in, a piece of land that I could afford. In that way, this poem is a prayer, in the same way that house hunting is an act of faith.”
—t’ai freedom ford