Cleaning House is Work. 13.11.04
I see now what I hadn’t before.
I understand, in parts, the movings that made roads-both dirt filled and divine.
I hear his screaming at his mother, holding weight, the size of crack pipes
There was a close rage-
Things going up walls inside me and grabbing what was kept safe
His screaming no longer caramel sweet, holding an understanding of his experience- palpable
Strong in stance,
And determined to make endings of what kept us bound.
We in the process of taking trauma see self. Only because it is all we know.
He cursed what she was enough for the both of them.
Intent- release anger.
Result- the former and more.
This is interaction sometimes for blk children.
It do mean that at times we come to be siblings or partner like.
Poverty means all of that.
It means we experience the trauma of our circumstance on this level
Something that could be called “realer”.
Thank you racism for giving us realness.
I understand the thousand hurt. I know it more now than then.
At first my stomach didn’t hurt.
Didn’t burn trying to reach itself
There weren’t nightmares or voices foretelling eternities of hopelessness.
Acid wasn’t something accompanying meals
Depression is a dark thing
Holds our loneliness with ill intent
Creates worlds where we have silence to affirm us.
Being Black in this world- womyn, queer and dreamer. . .
This can make us sad
Dangerous lies spin about
But mama, that is just material, and I understand better now.
Your words came to me in the midst of come downs.
Prayer and determination. We is children.