Sutures in Our Photos
.
Momma, let’s stitch the lesions men left on our lives—repeat
photos together the two of us undoing years
of our bliss, our dreams disappeared when we’re working to forget
our truths; too afraid to heal our history.
In this photo, you pretend to wish on one man.
you let canola oil spark white stars spit
from the pan— plenty of youth on you.
We danced to deflect dangerous men
like cockroaches being stomped, crushed,
scattered by backhands, our bodies
over the floor.
Here’s one where they left meth behind
your white teeth— dried tear ducts and their words
were enough to make treads that lured you
home
Black Moms
After Jericho Brown
.
Be warned, I have a Black Mother on my side.
She’s built to whoop ass, so you better hide.
She whipped my ass, and I couldn’t hide.
Black Moms breathe fire to keep their sons safe.
My Black Mom breathes lies to keep the truth safe:
With four dimes, she could afford to bring home toys.
Her four dimes couldn’t afford what time brought home.
“Eviction” is a word I learned at five.
Evicted at seven, I learned words are grace.
Black Moms love loud. Everyone can hear.
Black Love is louder than anyone can hear.
Black wrath turns into love with sharp teeth.
Black Mom’s wrath can turn teeth into broken glass.
Be warned, I have a Black Mother on my side.
