Tag: black writers

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Like Rain

(Crocker Art Museum – Sacramento, CA –
October 2025)

I can’t live in your daydreams
there are still half-read books and half-drunk cups of coffee lingering on my shelves
unedited manuscripts begging for attention under piles of mail I promised I would open
research ideas that haven’t quite been fleshed out enough
I can’t subsist on praise and sacrifice alone
Need the warm sun, a cool breeze, and an ocean view to nourish my aching soul
I can’t live in your daydreams but I can be a featured player in your fantasies
Call on me when the well runs dry
I’ll be there to flood your fields

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Anvéwité

(Christiansted, St. Croix, USVI – January 2024)

They taught us that the natives were all dead,
That indigenous islanders were long extinct.
Wiped out by European diseases, lack of weapons, poor luck.
But we know our ancestors, we know our histories.

They insisted that our minds were inferior,
Yet the “great nations” of the world were each built on our forced labor,
And when we claimed our freedom for ourselves, we became doctors, lawyers, architects, writers.

They claimed Kwéyòl wasn’t as good as French,
Et anvéwité, they were right about that at least – it’s richer, much more complex.
It’s the rough colonizer tongue, blanketed in the pure beauty of African and Carib languages. A shining example of our diverse heritage.

They’ll try to teach you false narratives about yourself, about the world,
Whether they intend to or not.
To survive this indignity, stand firm in your reality,
And stay one step ahead.

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Sorry for your loss.

Grief –
all consuming and endless,
like probing through pitch darkness for a light.
Grief sends you into mourning nearly every night,
and rouses you with kisses from pain soaked lips at dawn.

Grief, like hanging onto the last few hours of sun before your mother calls you in.
before you realize the world is full of hurt people, bumbling around trying to process.

Grief,
used to push it way down deep,
Tried to drown and bury it, along with any other facet of my personality that could be deemed weak.

Grief?
Now I’ve grown a little older and it flows out like a river,
Sadness, joy, and love, all wrapped up in the freedom it takes to allow myself to finally,
Grieve.

(Art by Lauren Halsey – Seattle Art Museum – April 2022)

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Je me suis trouvé

pas besoin de raconter l’histoire,
je sais précisément qui je suis et où j’ai commis une erreur.
feuilletant Dostoïevski, allongé au soleil,
fumeur au Young Dolph, l’herbe fraîchement coupée effleurant mes coudes nus.
descendant dégénéré, dissident et perdu de vue de Ramsès II, bien que très loin des villes scintillantes de l’Égypte antique.

pas besoin de rejouer vos souvenirs,
je sais exactement où je suis allé et où j’en suis,
aucune indiscrétion passée ne me fait honte, aucune menace de mal de la part d’un homme ne me met en échec,
aucune chaînes d’entreprise pas m’apprivoiser.
ma voix est forte et claire comme le bruit des vagues qui s’écrasent sur le rivage,
Je suis un enfant de l’été, élevé dans la nature.

Je me suis perdu une fois,
mais maintenant…

Continue reading “Je me suis trouvé”
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Pride is an Inferno

trace me,
follow the nicks and scars deep down to my roots.
tilled in poor soil with not nearly enough sunlight,
yet still I grew undeterred, unwavering.
branches outstretched far and wide like my mother arms,
there to either cradle or shade you (take your pick).
no tolerance left for inaction,
devoid of patience for justice.

trace me,
the same fire raging you see before you
has always burned hot beneath the surface,
always been a card carrying member of the “others” –
the weirdos/punks/queers/misfits.
call us what you will, but we’re leading the charge now.
buying homes and settling in your quaint little areas of town,
and that raging fire is never going out.

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Redux.

bare bones in the sunlight,
fear was our chariot,
now we’re dripping in hope.
break it down brick by brick,
tears of joy streaming down your face like fresh squeezed juice in the summertime.
bury me 10 feet deep, so I can finally get a good night’s rest when it all ends.
the crowd can carry on and play numb,
but there’s no respite when the morning comes
and morning’s come.