detroit church girl, she made this world bow she is my mama my auntie Mizz Hattie down the street she worked her ass off and when you needed her she stopped and picked you up detroit church girl we renamed Queen she gave us ourselves in big lights and ball gowns told us to stop…
Tag: #blackgirlmagic
john 1:1
… she who gave me the words that crafted this story…
how do you bury god?
She created me. You see.
She created me. Writing me on paper between cardboard covers. She made me real.
In This Here AFTER
Today I stood in the full body mirror attached to my closet. I stared at my belly and my hips for full minutes in disbelief before huffing out a joke at my own expense to no one, Girl. You need to get it together. You looking like one of them ‘Before‘ pictures on Instagram! I…
#goals
when i am an old lady i will walk the streets in layers of gold yell sweet nothings into the wind mime for catholicism and speak secrets to children while ladling double fudge brownies into pie tins for parties i haven’t been invited to when i am an old lady i will stare out at passersby and…
gravitational collapse or a star is born
reluctantly schooled in the art of fragile male care she is undone by the smallness of a life given over to dishes laundry and the incessant lego shuffle with infantile steps she unclothes the first layer of subjugation not yet naked she begins to see a glimmer of who she might have been had she…
a memory: untitled
are you sisters dancers, an innocent enough inquiry and had we the decency of dancers we may have left him his dignity in response indecency, however, is the occupation of poets so we in synchronized sonnet pounced dripping iambic pentameter across his abdomen like a procession of candle wax our minds weapons of mass destruction…
for my sistren, a poem
we were magnificence woman warriors armed with words piercing souls healing our own babes in tow men in awe imperfect with our flaws spewing necessary vulnerabilities a revolution in our bosom nectar sipping goddesses shat stereotypes spake stories over rip whiskey and dangling cigars sisters in arms poets, we are.
how poetry saved me from being just another ‘angry black woman’ or why i write
there was a time in my life when i was a hothead. and we’re talking the whole screaming profanities, fist drawn, feet shoulder distance apart, knees slightly bent, shoulders squared, ready to pounce and destroy rage filled angry. my primary trigger: someone i cared about was threatened or harmed. if you threatened to touch a…
grief, community organizing, and why a clean garage can literally save the day
the fourth of july weekend of 2016 sent me through a soul searching roller coaster ride. i was more 700 miles from my home, driving with my parents and young son after having spent a weekend with my aunts and cousins in hot springs, arkansas, when i learned that 2 men more than 1,000 miles…
fearfree living 