poetry dump (2023-2025)
me, domo, and rosa
I want to say something about the place I’m from, my hood, my block
Something significant about how Red Hook gave me an unfiltered view of what it meant to be poor and black and disabled and addicted and forgotten in America.
But also, the cradle of my youth showed me love abundantly
and so I say an ode—
To the project chicks, who lit blunts and lit up rooms, more likely to make vibes than problems
They hugged the block in a way that was so loving that even the born and bred red dead redemption muthafuckas bowed heads in their presence.
An ode to domo and rosa, my sherpas for the streets
My guides for the neighborhood I learned to take pride in, and I still do
An ode to our beats and melodies and memories
An ode to red asbestos ridden baseball fields and soccer fields and horchata and hurraches and hoochies in hoopties on clinton street
And the one time I smelled crack in the hallway, and an ode to A-rabs at new way
An ode to the pier before ikea, back when you ain’t wanna walk back there
Back before gentrification built a charter school we couldn’t afford, directly across the street from where the children of our wombs went to schools that failed at reading, math, and giving a fuck—
An ode to the pain of growing up in a forgotten community where administration after administration tells you to be grateful for the leaky roof over your head regardless of roach or rat or lead that causes mothers to cuss in the middle of the night
An ode to the trees the city labeled as hazards and ripped from roots because one fell down and killed a man and so they hunted down any living thing over six feet tall, but especially if the exterior was brown as oak
An ode to lungs fighting to breathe air poisoned by highways that block the sun—
An ode to baby boys who’s dreams end when trucks don’t use caution on roads that separate home from McDonald’s,
An ode to anyone who contemplated learning how to skydive from tall roofs
An ode to seniors who find some sort of peace in having community in bus trips, and take pride in the little accomplishments of what lineage is left, until god calls them home—
An ode to playgrounds destroyed by bulldozers in the great pillage of Red Hook, my home—
An ode to the neighborhood where it was decided that if the city was to give poor people a place to live it should be in one of the places where they are least likeliest to thrive—
Me, domo, and rosa, we still tried.
An ode to the anger, the struggle, the dedication to hustle, and the ambition to strive
To red hook to domo to rosa and to everyone I ever loved who grew up in red brick with windows with bars that made you feel more like prisoner than student.
An ode to the community that gave me an unfiltered view of what it meant to be rich and human and whole and alive and seen in America.
I been writing these poems
I been writing these poems cuz lately I need an ignition for my inner mission
Today I wrote a poem because I was commissioned
I been writing these poems to give myself permission to breathe
to be
to just be
I been writing these poems so I have a map back to who I am when I find myself adrift in oceans unknown
I been writin and writin these poems because I need a soapbox for my soul
And I been writing these poems so my heart don’t turn cold
Sometimes I write poems cuz I need to argue with the bitch in my head, she’s a hater
I flip the paper and write poems to convince the woman in the mirror not to believe her
I been writing these poems as odes and dedications to who I was, who I am, and who I am to be
I been writing these poems to be a vessel for all the love I have in me
I been writing these poems about hoes that were cruel to me and my love of family
But mostly I been writing these poems just to share lil a part of me.
Aquarius Season
You knew I loved music, just like you
You knew I loved everything pink, the opposite of your baby blue
You knew I loved cats
And Disney
And cooking in the backyard with onion grass
And talking to snails
And sliding down handrails
You knew I loved the protection of your shadow
And reading
And sneaking dirty movies
And dolls with big, big houses
And flipping, flipping pages and channels
You knew I loved to ride shotgun
But didn’t mind the backseat as long as I was with you—
When I was born and you held me close, in between your shifts at work
Maybe singing
oh, sweet child o mine
Did you see your reflection in me?
Did I renew fatherhood in you?
When you put me down, hands unsteady, tears unfamiliar
Did I feel normal?
Did I make you happy?
When I was two, and it was snack time
Did you feed me apples?
When I was five, and I laughed
Did it startle you to hear your sound copied and thrown back at you?
Did you miss me when I was sixteen?
Sometimes I let my mind wander
Let it create realities like
What life would be if you’d never lost a battle
Nor rode a pyre into the sunset on a cold February night—
But then I remind myself, life isn’t the blank page they tell you it is
And sometimes memories don’t have color
And their scents die away
And then I try to forget the ash staining my funeral dress, and the pretty pretty funeral shoes that pinched my feet any time it was:
stand up
so sorry for your loss
me too
sit down
Stand up
sorry,
sorry,
sorry
the pain of losing you etched onto my face and reflected in every soul trying to console a girl who hadn’t even considered what death meant
I prayed at your grave.
I ripped grass from roots in anger—
I watched the dirt fall from my hands
rocks, the bones of millennia
falling through my fingertips
encrusting my nails
caking my knees
a feeling grew, a stirring
rising from my depths
my guttural bellows
my sobs
I wept my hopes and dreams across you
hoping to inspire your flesh
hoping you'd rise.
I remember your voice
The words you left behind tremble at the loneliness they feel
A longing for the voice that once spoke them
they cower in corners, lingering in the planks of wood that used to echo your presence
Too afraid to ride breezes into sullen ears.
I still find myself weeping after midnight, sometimes
He’s been dead for 20 years!
I shout into the phone, complaining to mommy about something we can’t control, or change
It’s been 23, she says
She knows the exact number of years, months, days, and hours since you’ve been gone
She’s been counting every since
I know that it’s been 28,175,000,000 heartbeats, approximately
