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.  

on holding space for single mothers at the end of their rope

“ms. o, get your boy! cause i’m three minutes off his ass!” she came huffing and puffing into my office not because she had just walked up three flights of stairs but because she had just chased her 15 year old from out of the bathroom and into his classroom. “i’m gon kill him! i swear…

i can see the elephants from here

i love the circus. and when i say i love the circus i mean i love it! i love the clowns i love the acrobats. i love the tight rope walkers. i love Love LOVE the ringmaster. I LOVE THE CIRCUS! whenever the circus is in town i’d go. i’d get ‘not quite front row’…

on boxes, bad music, and the drive to be more

what if everything you’ve ever been taught about yourself were true? what if you really aren’t good enough? what if you really are too short? or too tall? or too skinny? or too loud? what if everything that has been told to you were the absolute undeniable irrefutable truth of who you are? who would…

louisiana long green (a high yielding southern heirloom)

red and yellow, pink and green purple and orange and blue at 3 they sing of rainbows mimicking each verse like a small chorus of sparrows seeking approval, fruit treats doled out delicacies before an early afternoon nap vermillion is a casualty, tossed aside orange the pronounced star of this singular masterpiece, brushed across too much…

my freedom was a prayer request (this I know as fact)

this life a syncopated symphony illustrated in easy rhythms played throughout an average day the sound of rain a wind that blows that truest note sang out at precisely the right time it’s the feel of the pavement beneath my feet and the pleasant freshness of a lime a moving psalm a prayer request everyday a…

emancipation proclaimed from the mountaintop

preamble my biggest fear is that stress will kill me. my biggest fear is that one day my son, my sweet baby boy, will walk in my room call my name and be forever changed because his mother has died in her sleep of a heart attack, or stroke or aneurysm. my biggest fear is…