Death by Poetry

I.
i told you how i feared Death--
the very thought of it suffocated me:
to think i'll never get to be again.

i'm not afraid to die, you said,
throwing your head back and laughing
into the crowd of smoke.

II.
tonight
i saw red
broken bones and torn flesh
what had i done?

i burn the pieces
in the back alley of the park where no one
used to go.

III.
when i return home i dip my bruised body
into lukewarm bath water
and watch the rest drown.

you're dead to me.

i climb into bed, my body heavy
and on my wall find your eyes staring back at me.

Hidden

We always met in an open field away from
any sign of life. It made me feel special at first,
but this is the only way he could love me. Just
as night is beginning to take over and the sun
is leaving behind a pallet of pinks and oranges,
he pulls me in as my body begins to shiver--
first from the chill and then from anticipation. I sit
with my back pressed against his beating heart;
feels like booted feet running against wooden floors,
the steps growing louder and louder as he
presses me deeper into him. We thrive in silence. 
It is our own language. After several moments, 
his wet tongue trips over my right ear 
and I giggle, eventually cringing from anticipation
again. And there we are again, the grass our 
support, our hands not getting enough of each
other, blessing bruises like pastors, kissing scars
like mothers, melting into each other like ice on tongues. 
I would lose myself in trying to love him. When it is 
too dark to see our black bodies anymore, we break 
in silence.  I try my best to regain my scattered self 
as he stands near the banks and howls at the moon. 
I am trying to remember every little detail, 
just in case this is our last time. But it never felt like 
the last time. Our laughter echoing through trees and 
train tracks, kissing each other like rain droplets falling 
on eyelids felt like forever. When we returned to the city, 
no one ever knew he loved me.

Gone Girl

barefooted black girl
                       nappy hair in disarray

tears falling down the paths of predecessors

                       brown dress torn against bruised skin
chasing little boys down

                       dirt path roads
dust staining her black skin

                       chasing daddy

though he's long gone
                       ma's been crying for her to come back home

her grandmothers' prayers howling in the wind

Lord please guide her
                       back home

you poor girl

                      poor little brokenhearted black girl
these little boys can't love you

                       you poor girl
daddy should've taught you

                        what love is supposed to be

In Memoriam: I, Too, Sing America

Today is not only the first day of Black History Month, but it also Langston Hughes' birthday, one of the most prominent writers during the Harlem Renaissance. Happy birthday, Mr. Hughes, and thank you for your amazing contributions to Black art and literature. It is only fitting that I post this poem in honor of Black History Month. Enjoy!

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—


I, too, am America.