#memories

In Trinidad, don't

fall into the pitch lake 

stuck, like the woolly mammoth 

in the hot tar of another contitent

with the taste of spicy mango and asphalt.

Candy

Heat the candy soft 

Don't burn 

Cool the candy firm 

Not hard 

Pull the candy thin 

Don't break

My House Remembers

My house is old 

So old it remembers when miners would pan for gold 

So old the glass is wavery, like rainbows 

So old the kitchen stove glows 

Warm and cozy 

So old there are secret spaces 

So old it remembers many many faces 

My house remembers when it was little 

And it grew room by room 

My house is so old it has bricks made by hand 

And wood from giant trees from this land And metal forged by fire, shaped with hammer and hands 

My house remembers when I was born When my mother was born 

When my grandmother was born 

My house remembers 

Because there are newspapers in the walls And treasures buried underneath 

My house is so old

It used to be the only house 

My house remembers when there were no streets, very few cars, and many gardens

My house is so old 

But it remembers how to keep us warm in the winter 

And cool in the summer 

It remembers how to store food in the cellar And memories in the attic. 

Inheritance

My body held stories before I could hold a pen to shape letters 

My stomach is full of recipes salted by generations and seasoned with time 

My ears ring with whispers of songs hummed by mothers, aunts, grandparents 

I spoke the tongue of motherland memories half forgotten 

My dreams are those of revolutionaries fighting wars I do not know 

My skin and hair and eyes, the color of all that dust collected 

And in my blood and bones a multitude of strength, tempered, misremembered over time

The Caged Bird Still Sings

Why does the caged bird still sing?

The caged bird sings for the brown bodies that labor

The brown bodies that protect 

The brown bodies that clean

The caged bird sings for the brown bodies lost 

The brown voices silenced 

The brown talent stolen 

The caged bird sings to say their names

The caged bird sings to remember.

Sons

White sons came out of my brown body
A body that loves them more than me
And I tell them you're still brown boys inside Don't white wash away the stories of our history
But I worry that they will learn to blend
Erase the memories of our diaspora
Forget to stand in solidarity with other brown boys
Forget to love brown girls like me
They tell me they're a little bit white and a little bit brown
I tell them we are the stories piled up inside us Omission can be worse than lies
My sons tell me I that am beautiful
And I try to forget all the white boys who said I wasn't

Modern Womxn

When I was a kid

They said you can be anything 

But they didn't mean me

Because all I heard is

You can't be a small-town brown nerd

You can be smarter than a her

But not a him

You can't do better than the color of your skin 

You can shine bright 

But you can't earn white 

You can be a success, a mother or a wife

But not all three in the same life

Did you breastfeed?

Did you have a natural birth?

Who is taking care of your home and your hearth?

Don't slack, don't let your clothes get tight 

You can do it all, but you can't do it right

Why aren't you smiling

On your way to PTA

And every time I walk through my door

There unorganized crumbs on the floor

They said you can be anything 

You want to be

But they didn't mean you and they didn't mean me

Untitled

I'm a writer, but I cannot write
Because all the words I want to say
Are words I never should.
All the words I have to share
Are words that really hurt
They hurt me in my insides
So bad I want them out
But then they would hurt you
Oh sure, you've heard these words before
They're probably not so bad
But my words are all about you
And the people that you love
My words will crawl inside you
And they'll whisper in your head
They'll rumble in your stomach
And ache behind your eyes
They'll get inside your blood
And be in all your thoughts
My words will make you question
Everything you know
These words are meant to hurt me
And if I write them they'll hurt you

The Proof is in the Pudding

tick tick tick tick
but never any tock
chitty chitty chitty
where's my bang
so much heart
but never any blood
so much skin
but never any bone

Reality

Maybe-not right now.
Then when?
In the quiet of your mind.
I am watching HBO
Is it the one where she dies?
Of course, they're all like that.
Then why can't you change the channel?
I like to see how it happens.
You can record it for later.
No, then it doesn't feel real.