Martyrs (For Botham Jean)/Sister/He, Homecoming/She, Homegoing
by MALI COLLINS
in Fall 2025
Tafari Meliszwe, “Libation - Chicago, IL,” 2024
Martyrs (for Botham Jean)
He was staring down at me from atop a street sign
while waiting for smoked chicken.
I gasped when I saw him. He smiled.
At first, it looked like they named a dead end after him.
For an eternity his legs would sway above a directionless street that forced us to return to where we had started.
Perhaps the Texas wind had twisted the street-sign-seat from East to West in one of its hot summer storms.
Instead, he carried the weight of a much longer boulevard through the south side of Dallas past the flats in which he was murdered while eating dessert.
My order was ready.
He waved goodbye.
I cried and ate in silence
on the corner
where smoked chicken
and martyrs meet.
Sister
She screamed my true feelings back at me—
I stood against the kitchen counter like a shot up stop sign
Holes had contorted me with folded edges and a burnt middle
To read something entirely different
But my color still flashed RED and my symbol still remained
I am entirely loved
And there's nothing I can do about it.
He, Homecoming
Over grief
we made sounds
of wailing and brooding
slow heaves of pain
That another one of us had gone
There was a shared hurt there
Between the celebrators and the mourners
Both of us in the we
A birth and a funeral
A rebirth and a new burial
Dug up in an irony of bones
Cradled around your head.
Without your deserved wreath
These skeletal remains shadowed your
Forehead in the cool summer sun
While you were upside down in an equatorial verse
Where summer means rain
And winter means sun
He died
She died again
We were born
In through the water
Out through the water
What a beautiful way to perish
What a tragic day for us to be born as lovers
She, Homegoing
There were many desert rocks that could have convinced you to stay
Heritage sands and miracle puddles too
You came back
And found me
Without a compass
Tracking you across the world
So I did not lose you
Before you gathered me.
Mali Collins is a doula, writer, and assistant professor of African American Studies at American University. She lives in Baltimore, MD.
