(Day 6)

i put two fingers inside myself the way one does the dishes
efficiently, with short fingernails.
drinking the dishwater is part
of cleaning your plate


the cost

still unfinished/unpolished: 

the cost of dead black boys is going down.
They used to cost
jailtime- the years taken –
an indictment – a badge is not the excuse –
and now it seems
the cost of a dead black body has sunk
to the cost of bullets that peppers the torso.

dead black boys are cheaper
than paying rent or filling up a gas tank
next time you need an oil change,
use instead black blood.

There is no humor in this,
it is survivor’s anger.

each city has their own roster
of hashtags, an unfinished list
ground onto tombstones and chalked into sidewalks.
how many names can we remember
before they are tally marks
I in falcon heights minnesota IIIII IIII in charleston, south carolina

these cities are your city.
you can taste their bodies in the ground water.




Renamed “Through and Through”

This is a poem that I wrote a while ago, but am revisiting now as my final poetry portfolio is due soon. I’ve done some editing, and received some help along the way as well.

Through and Through

A boy in cotton socks stands in the creek bed
throwing round rocks upstream.
Later he tells his friends his father taught him
to skip stones.

A married woman keeps a brita filter
in her sock drawer, but fills her husband’s glass
from the leak beneath the kitchen sink.

Contact between windshield and bald-capped bird
sends fissures spiderwebbing through glass,
feathers streaming in rear windows.

Pigtailed little girl dunks her sour gummy worm head
first into the pond, sugar dissolving amidst duck fluff.
Nothing bites.

Kudzu swallows an acre of land in six months
rain-hungry in shadow.
The jacketed trees die standing up, still green.

I have been told that drowning only hurts
until you are water through and through.