Pilate ponders where she belongs
the man who hit me goes
to make love to his wife after.
someone tells me all of his teeth
have fallen out now & I use
mine to laugh & chew
tobacco sticks. I once prayed
he would never smile again, & maybe
the Universe is hilarious, & maybe It
doesn’t care about our laughter at all. I am
floating with nowhere to go. trying
to convince people I am alright. a woman
fit me for a dress. I wanted to show off
how I rid myself of the violence
all over my body & she makes
clothes folks sway good in.
tape around my waist, she notices
I don’t have a navel & I gotta tell
the truth—sometimes,
people are not born, some of us
fall into this world
Copyright © 2025 by Hilda Davis. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on June 20, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
“Redefining love for myself is vital to my healing and survivaI. I am grateful to turn to Black women writers for guidance toward redefinition. Pilate Dead of Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon teaches me that, while the truth has many forms, love stands apart. Pilate, in spite of what she survives and witnesses, embodies love. Love has no clear origin, and it is ever-present. Love may even look like me. This poem is both a search and a reflection on what may be possible when a person moves forward with faith in love. Love may just guide a person back to origin.”
—Hilda Davis
Hílda Davis
