by KAILANDE CASSAMAJOR
When It Hurts to Dance
The air clears
and the rhythms
rip through hearts
my sistah can you see the picture?
my brothas got
melted gold lined
outlined over their hated
insides,
obsidian
underneath their blue black
black gold skins
Oh, how I pray for redemption
in the midst of the slow moving
picture of diasporic mothers
crying out across the edges
of the earth
casting their goodbyes
In screams—they are
mellow soulful tunes that
project out towards the heavens?
shake the historic
Jazz movers
Soul shakers
yes
Can the sons hear them?
Can the daughters
Of unsearched ocean
and untouched earth
dance freely
To the cries
To the breeze
To the rough
Quakes of the mind
When your beloved has
gone
To the systemic lies
saying we’re safe?
Can they dance
to anything?
Before they die?
Adornment
The wonders of creation
welcome you Child!
The God of all
says hello to ya dear
now why don’t you take these hues
and bathe in them
make your beauty sparkle even more,
make your breath a glittering yellow
your footsteps a dramatic indigo over
stark white clouds
let your new hands paint your face
In eccentrism,
overt vibrance
extended over self created
dimensions
You are a world, child
You are a world.
Catharsis
Aged and callous hands
Unfold
Reveal fingers
Holding onto
Blood red petals.
The contrast
Stark yet inviting
Much like the beginning
Towards cleansing.
The pads of fingers
Are electric
And like power
Like a showering moment
Of reminiscence,
Invoke and recall
A past consisting of
Soft skin and
Gentle touches.
They move
Stretch
Tighten
Embrace.
A catharsis of love
And pain.
Life is all a rushing river,
Purifying forgotten soil
With violent clashes
Against sharp
Rigid Rocks.
Out of Dust and Thorns
This is for the mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers, who lived through the chaos, and beheld our coming with a new hope, and decided we were their revolution.
Castor oil.
Bitter melon leaves.
What we call asosi.
The river overflows,
dilutes, concentrated
Tea.
I am facing the mirror.
A hand reaches out
Limbs
branches
marked with a million
scratches
touches my face.
I notice
The many faces
In my eyes.
Cotton in my hair
Sugar all round my neck
Jaw set
Locked
Waiting for the divine
To be spoken
Again.
The river flows
Over my walls,
Fills the room with
Echoes
That rock me to sleep
I dream of beautiful faces
Moving through
The current.
Faces that lived
Before the island line.
The river speaks to a moaning ocean
That gives birth to breath
over and
over again.
It no longer catches sails.
The island weeps mango juice
And blood,
from aqua skies
and mothers’ sighs.
A vine of thorns grew between
The crevices of my spine,
Forming a bridge I sleep on
Every night.
It doesn’t get cold here.
In a place like this,
The cold thrives in bones,
Freezes souls,
Tempts the body to accept defeat
Deform,
Contort,
Purge the life it held.
It seeks another vessel
Another innocent light
To consume.
It dreams to turn joy into
Shattered teeth,
And limp tongues,
Drive your laughter into
The depths of the ocean,
Make you jump out your flesh
And behold the realms of your spirit
My children.
When you were born,
Thorns pierced my heart
And I bled over myself.
A holy shower,
A righteous rain.
Heaven opened up,
Liquid gold fell from my eyes
And the river found its way
Through the generations
Across my bridge
And out of my mouth.
I could hear the palm trees
Dancing,
Lifting themselves up at their roots
Bending
Forming a temple over our heads
And I kept hearing:
Sanctified,
Sanctified,
Sanctified.
Another revolution
Has been born
Out of dust
Out of thorns
And the river
Will continue
To record.