i told my mother i wanted her skull.
she gasped
then laughed
then nervously tracked
my eyes
boy that must be your white side
she surmised
unable to hide her visions
of the digging
the remembrance
of what has gone missing
in the moonlit hands
of men that held her
innocence
baby brother
tongue of her mothers
and their motherland
side tooth
natural hair
some unalienable proof
that she too
belongs here
what will do you with it?
she asked
peering beyond the mask
of masculinity
i wear to protect the fear
of my own complicity
in the violences shared
beyond ethnicity
and race
the insatiable taste
for taking
what is sacred
in the name of making legible
out of naked
i too have dug into the earth
with my blade
tongue sharp as a spade
moonlit steel
shooting light beams
weaponized to dig the graves
of past lives
you witch
demon possessed bitch
the trauma of generations
being replayed
where they should have been laid
to rest
i too flung dirt over my shoulder
like the earth is a tool i own
you hoe
you bag of bones
let me make a note
of everything you lack
to make it easier to extract
everything you know
your home
your glow
your seeds
before they grow
whew …
be still mind
remember the line
about the still pond
let the gliders land on
your wide sky
crystalized reflection
of the wide night
moonrise
first light
imagine being so still
as to deserve still for your last name
whew …
when the heaviest clouds pass
i ask
what graves have i inherited
to be redemptive of the past
harms that haunt me
from which fires did my fathers run
and which bodies of water
did they hug
which wise women
would claim me
as one of their faithful sons
an image comes
that one man in that one photo
black and white
black in the lips
white in the eyes
fixed on something beyond refraction
all day he sat
in that rust cracked
folding chair
like a snare
trapped in a rhythm
beyond time
longer than tide
both hands clasped
over one knee
but spirit free
like my titi
when her youth
flooded the room
fifty eight years rushed
through her head
spiraled out through my left
hurricane
her final breath
i just want to hold you momma
and behold you
take the whole
rest of my life
getting to know you
with no drama
just to appreciate the fine art
of your zygomatic arch
we can start now
she quipped
the appreciation part
the fine art of relationship
the practice
of preparation for death
is reparation
sitting
for the hard conversations
acknowledgement
that sensation
does not stop at the edges of your skin
we are all holding each other
to be given forgiveness
implies a willingness
to forgive
to sieve the sediment
of reticence
and find language
that defies
the negligence of our inheritance
a readiness to come clean
dressed to be seen
to be felt
as aliveness
even when the tide gets quiet
quiet enough
to be called silence
still enough to name
the violences
tangled in the mane
of our desires
…