Posts for June 26, 2026 (page 3)

It’s more than a symbol

of African diaspora,
of togetherness, of prosperity—

more than your favorite
dish, laid out with saltfish—

more than the tree
at the center of the property

across a sea, between walls,
in the Zion your mother was

given—where we taught
children from within

& without; it’s knowing
not only it is so vital

a part of you, of your home,
of your heritage, but also

a lesson that sums up our lesson
of 20 add months:  It is only

edible when it is ripe,
perfection splitting open

on its own & not a moment
too soon; if it is forced it releases

toxin. 
             It is you.  It is us.
             It is all of this–

black seeds of wisdom & patience
& knowing what is right

is only right when it is
timing & the story that

was always
His to tell.

browning petals
sagging stems
stunted buds

if I house

ancient claws
clumping fur
arthritic cuddles

if I wear

shirt again
hat again
holey socks

if I hold

leathered hand
infant toes
car door handle

if I dump

coffee grinds
carrot skin
discount flowers

if I drink

relished gulps
tender sips
timid tastes

can I pluck

nephew’s grin
sun’s flirtation
my hydrangeas

Only now does it feel like summer: the kids break
out the bubble wands and make iridescent magic
in their front yard. June is almost done,
slinking away like a black cat past mailboxes
at twilight, and I haven’t indulged
nearly enough. June is almost done,
which means it’s almost my grandmother’s birthday.

Born on the fourth of July, my grandmother died
alone in the nursing home three days before
Covid restrictions lifted. Even now, her here-ness
and there-ness are everywhere. At the height
of her dementia, we drove her through town,
underneath the red, white, & blue banners stretched
across streetlights downtown. You did all this
for me? she asked.

I notice the girl and her bubbles,
arms thrown wide, watching
what was so very there one moment
be so very not the next,
disappearing in a wet pop
on the concrete, and I want
to go home. I want to think of something
pretty. Like that summer will never end.
Like that something so delicate
can still go on & on & on.

My grandfather’s pocketknife has seen use since long before my birth,
Worn in his jean pocket
For cutting bale twine
And building new fences,
For the mischievous crafts he’d scheme out of love
And the gritty work he’d dirty his hands with after.
Now the metal rusts into the color of its handle,
It feels fragile as I carry it,
Just strong enough for one more task:
Forging the tie from grandpa to me,
Across age and death,
And building new memories
To keep in my pocket beside it.

The space between

what is,

what is not,

what was,

what’s yet to come

a void,

unmarked,

like untouched parchment.

Conjure anything upon it,

with it.

Infuse it with existential ache

or the unburdened wonder of a child.

Revel.

Adorn it with the sun,

or the moon,

with me and you.

Imprint it with all you are.

Drench it,

as if it’s your final moment there.

Extract every drop

from the marrow of your being.

Its destiny is forged by your hands

in ways you cannot yet fathom.

Chemo chains me to my bed
Holds me hostage
In my house
Sometimes I fight it      fatigue
Sometimes I give in      rest  

Some days I lust
To dance with the sun
Smothering kisses flood face
Bare shoulders caressed   

When chemo barges in my room
I flirt with him        a seductive wink
Tell him I know he’d never hurt me      lies
Smile longingly     interlock my hand with his
Suggest we take a ride    
Go to the park
See friends
He runs his hand through my hair
Ok Baby        But remember…  

Anxious for the sun to see me
I wear bright Bohemian pants
Splashes of turquoise    orange    green  and gold like the sun  (golden shoes to match)
And yes, pants peppered
With mushrooms   flowers   AND   sunrays
I apply MAC lipglass     Love Child
To chapped lips

A sunny afternoon   delight
Spending time with friends   comrades  my bestie
Many of them smiling in my face       remarking
You don’t look like what you’ve been through  

I glance at Chemo
Bite my lip 
Silently  scream
Baby, I ain’t gonna tell them
About that long vertical scar   raised skin
Eclipsed by darkened moon craters
Uhhh   that wasn’t you
That was Cancer      my last lover         

Babe, I won’t mention
The black cracked soles of my feet      neuropathy
I’ll hide my hands in my pockets      palms and fingernails pitch black like night  

I rise from my chair
Headed to ladies’ room
To reapply foundation    Lipglass
That mask discolored cheekbones    scaly lips  

Chemo jerks me by the arm    
Barks in my ear
It’s time to go     tell them goodbye 
My brain scamrbled       scrambled 
Cannot find the right words  

Chemo looks at them     softens his voice
We gotta go      she’s tired
They nod in understanding  

I pray one of them
Will rescue me
From the chains of my home

It was a remarkably large funeral
for someone with so few
redeeming qualities.

i cry at weddings,
though i will try all i might to not admit it
as if it is a fault of mine

turn my head away to hide the tear shed,
catch the drop faster than it dare fall
swipe at my eyelashes,
blame heavy mascara i am not used to wearing,

not possibly the sight of a father
with his daughter’s arm wrapped around him
down the aisle and him looking so proud
that she is in love

i cry with all the hope that my father’s eyes
will still look at me with pride someday

I tear the page for burning—

Bayes’ theorem tells us
prior experience should alter
future expectations.

Four hundred cycles
ought to count
as compelling evidence.

The data
are overwhelming.

Somehow,
every month,
my brain
cleans the slate.

It becomes convinced
the sadness
is evidence.

That this loneliness
means something
permanent.

That my friendships
are not
what I thought.

That I’m getting
old.

You would think
the confidence interval
would narrow.

Instead,
my state of mind
remains wildly
unimpressed
by the data.

Which makes me wonder
whether Bayes
gave us
too much credit.

We like to imagine
evidence
changes minds.

History suggests
otherwise.

We call
monthly repetition

a hormonal cycle.

Century-long repetition
becomes

world history.

Nations.

Elections.

Marriages.

Families.

We repeat ourselves
with astonishing confidence,

convinced
this time
the conclusion
is different.

Twenty-six days later,

the experiment
is repeated.

The results are nearly identical.

Scientists can explain
the chemistry.

Estrogen.

Progesterone.

A conversation
between molecules
that somehow becomes
a conversation
with myself.

The tears
are real.

The exhaustion
is real.

The loneliness
is real.

What changes
is not the feeling.

Only the story
my brain constructs
to explain it.

Now my daughter
is approaching
the age

when I will have
to teach her
about all of this.

Not simply how periods work.

But how
a belief
can arrive

wearing
the costume
of truth.

How do I tell her
that her mind

will occasionally
make extraordinary claims

with very little
new evidence?

That she should trust her feelings,
but perhaps
postpone trusting
their conclusions.

That biology
is sometimes

an exceptionally persuasive
storyteller.

I hope I remember to tell myself
the same thing.

Because next month,

despite
approximately
four hundred
previous experiments,

despite all the graphs,
all the chemistry,
all the evidence,

I will almost certainly
believe it again.

And perhaps that is the strangest part.

Not that hormones
can change
us.

But that evidence
remains
so strangely powerless
against certainty.