fella. (a little poem about emancipation)

i saw him

drumming sweet on the same day i wanted to end my life

and he smiled

small to himself.

probably no bigger than was meant to be

it was after all, a smile he held for himself

i thought aloud

what is freedom in Black skin?

and how can i be it?

is that possible?

to be both Black and at ease in Babylon?

and so i approached

had tea

and smiled hoping he could teach me.

hip me to that which he had.

“you and i is different, pa. And what is free for you may not be the same for me. But i know this- free is not like grief. it ain’t similar to appearal ready to wear and throw aside. you can’t move free- no more than you can move cool. and you can’t find it in the killing fields. Free is something born inside and made to be found at our cores and held tightly.”

some strange clouds made us friends.

and the gesture of hands held made us intimate in a way that fucking couldn’t.

i felt it there-

a river of arousal and hope rise in me

and sought to stop it at the gates of my eyes because i was taught not to cry before other men.

he kissed my cheek

“we almost there.”

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