When she tells us they had to make
the fence around the patio higher
because she tried to climb over it,
we agree – it is a high fence.
When she tells us they keep
taking all the pictures off the walls
in her room, we talk about how nice it is
she has so many pictures of her family.
When she tells us they are trying
to kill her, we agree – that is not very nice.
We bring her favorite donuts and sit
outside. But it’s too hot. On that we all agree.
It’s hard to write a poem
when my kids have conversations
with me about how dire the world is.
What they’ve overheard on the news.
What other kids have said.
What they have witnessed.
“It wasn’t like this when I was younger,”
my eleven-year-old daughter says.
“But it was,” I say,
“You just didn’t notice yet.”
“Makes sense,” my thirteen-year-old son adds,
“We’re more self-aware these days.”
It’s hard to write a poem
when I keep replaying these talks
and all the things I wish I’d said,
all the things I wish I could promise,
all the things I feel the need to apologize for,
but I can only hope
they feel how loved they are,
I can only hope
they choose kindness in their words
and actions,that their intentions are good
and they learn from their mistakes
instead of growing bitter
despite what others may show them.
I can only hope
they know it isn’t their responsibility to fix
every bad thing, but to do all the good
they can where they can when they can.
It’s hard to write a poem
when my head is heavy with
worries of my children,
but maybe a poem is what they need most.
Standing in silence the flowers suffer to bloom their way out of earth.
#AmericanSentence
Chiggers and mosquito bites,
briar scratches and rug burns,
scraped knees from bicycle
accidents, blistered hands
and skinned elbows from
climbing trees.
Splinters and stumped toes
from running barefoot
all summer long. Bee stings
and sunburns, earaches
from swimming and burst
lips from not catching the ball.
Band-aids and calamine lotion,
tweezers and Vaseline,
sweet oil and rosebud salve.
Nothing could keep me inside.
The woods called to me,
the trees needed climbing
and all the small maladies
just part of the adventure.
KW
6/19/24
The moon affects how I think.
With its cycles, a fundamental
part of me changes, and
I’m not supposed to be
this way. I’m not supposed
to want you the way I do. Yet,
here I am, being pulled
by your gravity, digging
my heels in to no avail.
I grip the ground, only
to be swept away by the force
of you. So, I close my eyes
and let myself be dragged
away with the tides.
The poem I started earlier was erased
So I’m reminded of the irony
When I stare in the face
Of a non melanated person who tells me
That I can’t enter this building
Through this entrance
And indeed,
If I’m not performing or entertainment
Then to get in I need to make different arrangements
The space for the merchants where I can spend
Is right around the corner
Where they’re allowed to vend
Now, if I make my way down to that entrance
And you make your way to it to let me in
Almost as if to make it appear that we’re friends
Or that we’re now even because you allowed me
Entrance
Never mind the fact that you are occupying a
Historically black space
And then I turn the corner to the vendors
And it’s then that I’m reminded
And I remember
The very reason why initially
A few years ago
A few of us banded together
To give black-owned businesses
Both Large
and small
A day to gain revenue
And it took shape in the form
Of a cookout and festival
And even though the city tried their very best
To shut it down
Every year they held it
And it became more popular in town
So now that it’s a federal holiday
They had to accept and adopt
And now they put it on the calendar
And throw their own thing
And gatekeep those who they want onstage
With a couple of those we respect
To allow them some currency
So now we get to let them determine our order
Our worth
And every single year now they get to act
Like they discovered it
First
And that’s why today was a stark reminder
Of why I was intent
On aligning with those who were obsessed
With carving out
Our very own space
But you can let them keep playing
In your face
So I supported as many black businesses as possible today,
Left
And I’ll see y’all at Charles Young
This Saturday
There is a crease below the knot
of my tie, today: evidence
of interaction
in the days before
the new year.
I discover a dusty sheen–
flesh-colored, seemingly
alive–in the grey blue
of my eyes, in the silk
of this tie
and as I wait
for the next life
to begin,
as I wait
to interview
a new me,
you are there
or the remnant of
you is there.
All of you.
I wipe the fabric.
I press the crease.
I walk forward
and leave
the past
behind.
algae as
