by Aja Monet
and woman, is a sort of magic you cannot hashtag.
the mere weight of it, too vast to be held. we hold
ourselves, an inheritance felt between the hips
woman of soft darkness. portal of light, watch them
envy the revolution of our movement. we break
open to give life flow. why the terror of our tears,
torment of our taste. my rage is righteous. my love
is righteous. my name is righteous. hear what i am
not here to say, we, too, have died. we know we are
dying, too. i am not here to say, look at me, how i
died so brutal a death, i deserve a name to fit all
the horror in. i am here to tell you, how if they
mention me in their protests and their rallies,
they would have to face their role in it, too, my
beauty, too. i died many times before the blow
to the body. i have bled many months before
bullet to the flesh. we know the body is not the
end. call it what you will but for all the hands,
cuffed wrists of us, shackled ankles of us, the
bend over to make room for you of us, how dare
we speak anything less than i love you. we who
love just as loudly in the thunderous rain as when
the sun shines golden on our skin and the world
kissed us unapologetically. we be so beautiful
when we be. how you gon be free without me?
your freedom tied up with mine at the nappy
edge of our soul singing with all our sisters. watch
them stretch their arms in my voice, how they
fly open-chested toward your ear, listen for
Rekia Boyd
Tanisha Anderson
Yvette Smith
Aiyana Jones
Kayla Moore
Shelly Frey
Miriam Carey
Kendra James
Alberta Spruill
Tarika Wilson
Shereese Francis
Shantel Davis
Malissa Williams
Darnisha Harris
Michelle Cusseaux
Pearlie Golden
Kathryn Johnston
Eleanor Bumpurs
Natasha McKenna
Sheneque Proctor
Sandra Bland
we are each saying,
we do not vanish in the bated breath of
our brothers. show me, show me a man
willing to fight beside me, my hand in his,
the color of courage. there is no mountaintop
worth seeing without us. meet me
in the trenches, where we lay
our bodies down
in the valley
of a voice
say itsayhername
cook county
it used to be two hots and a cot
now it’s one hot meal a day
each day is different around here
i was visiting the women’s jail
it was a Friday and everyone is
always in a better mood,
a woman fans herself with
a copy of her sonogram. stenciled
on the wall, it reads, “it’s never too late
to be what you might have been.” this
moment to share, rock bottom soul.
a sister hesitates to the front of the room
singing, his eye is on the sparrow.
they call her Black but her name is
Bermy. a voice that never leaves you,
ancient as a newborn kicking sound
in the air, all the cells shake loose.
her song rinsed and cleansed
somehow we left a bit more defiant,
ready for whatever was ahead.
though our wounds were hidden,
our healing was there, bright and brilliant
for all of us to love in.
i’m just doing my job
is not an answer or solution or remedy
is not what you say
is not how you respond
is not professional or kind or noble
is not a prayer or lending a hand
is not a sermon
is not a law
is not an offering
is not altruistic or people-spirited
is not protecting
is not comforting
is not listening or seeing or doing
is not enuff
just doing my job
is not a being
dark matter
dont let anything
or any one
snatch you
out of happiness
which
in all honesty(as opposed to selling something)
is gratitude
how many times
a day
do you say
thank you
instead of
assault
at a head
how ready
the heart for
values that can not
be measured
by the dollar
or advertisement
which is my master
and yours too
in all honesty(had that been something of value)
there are no gods
in America
unless of course
your god
is green and greedy
complicit and complacent
compliant and easily compromised
it would ease
so many in their conscience
if i say
money is not
the enemy
yet
who are we kidding
don’t we already know
enemies aren’t real
except perceived
threats
so you mean to
tell me
you worship
your heart
or your Jesus
or your Allah
or your Jehovah
are you sure
there isn’t something else
guiding you each day
out the door
toward a perceived purpose
and what would you be doing
had money no business
NYC tells me
one hour of the average
human being’s life is worth
$7.25
what is $7.25 to a dollar
if a dollar is only a piece of paper
which is only a representation
of value we don’t actually have
anything to show for
except what we purchased
which is only the value
we give it
except what we give is measured
by what we take and call valuable
where is all the gold
these banks claim to represent
i wish i could tell you
about some kind of
inner gold
you possess
but i’m still
digging for mine
as if i could own
what’s inside me
as if it’s not part of
something greater than
matter, or sight, or this english
which limits the agreements
we can make together about
our existence here
together
in 2012
scientists claimed they found
the god particle
this question
this troubling missing factor
of our weight
our hold
our value
they claim and yet
we have no evidence
except the collision of values
most of what we know
and how we see ourselves
is determined by five western countries
five of w
hich determine
value by how well they kill
others.
and we out here screaming
black lives
matter
as in exist or take up space
atoms
molecules
as in mass
ain’t there some funny irony there
i am starting to believe
that this is all we value
is each other’s death
more than life
and if life so valuable
how come
how so
it’s not lost on me
that death is part of life
some die so others live
but who is doing all the dying
exactly
at the expense of all this living
are
you
really
being?
black joy
joy is the will
is the dimple that has endured
a dance so deep in a dark cheek
a wound without a scar
without a trace
is the humor of hurt
is the hell of being healed
joy daps death
lives in the grin
singing from the blood
bathes in a smirk
testifies tenderness in a tear
is a smile silhouetted against the face
witnessing the want
is the flower in the grenade
a rose in the concrete
a pirouette beside a barricade
is the butterfly in the battlefield
is disarming
is the swing set in the middle of a gunfight
is dodging a bullet
is hopscotch and double dutch
a fierce gaze, the side eye, the shade
is the sass, snap, and the head nod
is the turn up, the swag
joy is righteous and ratchet
joy twerks and taps, jooks and jives
harlem shakes, electric slides, dutty wines
salsas on two and rumbas
joy is rhythm and repetition
hums in harmony
is the blues
is a song in a cotton field
or central bookings
or on a crowded subway
joy is a song anywhere
joy bes in the trap
is a dilla beat in the middle east
is fly
is finger-licking good
is pasteles with black beans
or a patty and coco bread
is fried chicken
with bbq sauce
or buffalo sauce
or hot sauce
or any sauce
is a recipe passed on
a language that survives
savory and sweet
toe curling
knocking boots
is the fight and the fury
is making love to make up
is the glow
is an entire day in a lover’s arms,
a carton of ice cream and a bed of books
illuminated in the aftermath
is wrinkled lips, a pouted kiss, the shivering hips
the theater of thunder
joy is a story traveling thru laughter
a rocking chair on the front lawn
a wind chime in a window
is a barbeque in the backyard
subwoofers in a hoopty
melanin gathered in a room
is the entourage
is getting your friends in the club
joy is all about vibes
is a roof over your head
clothes on your back
is free 99
is havin the rent when its due
or havin no rent at all
is no debt or no credit check
joy is shooting dice in a stairway
is getting a hand in spades
or a double six capicu in dominoes
is hoops in a crate
is opening a fire hydrant in the heat
joy is a six-block willy through traffic with no handlebars in the rain
is the catwalk
is the voguing
is the coming out
joy is a crackhead with a dime bag and a dream
is a fresh pair of white kicks with the check
bottle caps glued beneath dress shoes
is three dollars in the tank
is catchin rain water in a tin cup
is a firefly in your palm
is buying sunflowers for yourself on a cloudy day
is a moon in the sky as if in a school play
is your father in the audience
joy is skipping school or recess
is a screen without static aluminum foil antenna
is when the belt buckle snaps or the switch breaks or your mom gets too tired
is waving down the ice cream truck
is a fresh line up and a clean doobie
is the perfect coil to a curl or a loosened nap and an afro pick
joy is the gift of gab
is rappin yo ass off
is roasting or wrestling a sibling to tap out
is yo mama jokes until it’s yo mama
is the first foot out the jail, the homecoming, graduation
is the step show at the probate
joy is hugging the self, what conquers the heart and captures the blame
is the madness of our meaning, the maturity of our memory
the irony of our forgetting
is a helicopter four days after the hurricane on roof with no water or food
is a mother picking her daughter up from foster care
is smoking a joint and a cop car switching lanes
is food stamps on the first of month
is no snitching, is loyalty, perseverance, protest, resilience, and resistance
is the food after the funeral or the parade
the blessing and the curse
joy is the call and response
the prayer and the pulpit
is evidence of things unseen
is the hallelujah, the amen, and the holy ghost
is speaking in tongues
is when the santo say u don’t need a cleaning
is genetic heirloom
is the portable promised land
is the diaspora
is making it overseas or making it over the mason-dixon line
is family, brotherhood and sisterhood
is feeling another’s dimple in your face
is together, unified on the frontlines
our joy will astonish the world cuz joy
true joy
is justice.
it is what it was
when your president bails
out the banks
not the students,
it don’t make no difference
if he’s black or blue
all you care about is
how much
money you got
before
you overdraft your account
for reading books and writing essays
and all you got to show for it is garnished checks,
cups of noodles, fancy friends,
and terms your family don’t understand
they just wanna know why you got two degrees
and no health care and no decent income
i tell them, i got all the ways of talking about the problem
but no way to make solutions
so dear mr. crazy foreign policies, false flags,
war
and propaganda, mr. GMOs, chemtrails, drones,
and deportations, dear mr. false hopes and bamboozled
dreams, mr. osama bin laden and gaddafi killer,
mr. no power to close gitmo while chastising black folk
to defend your white cousins,
we know trayvon could’ve been your son
sad thin
g is, he was
he was you, too.
survival of the richest
windows caked in dust
empty towns riven into sharp
screams and cold smog
unemployed
no one can afford the roof
over they head
trudging through meadows of marsh
lamenting drudgery
making due with this country
there is no middle class anymore
never was
only high or low
very low
so low
you look down and fallin ain’t nothin but a step
in the wrong direction
so close to the ground ain’t so bad
ain’t so alone
it’s the whim of people
make you feel a way about life
we live by the law
of strangers who commit
silent deeds
they define us
day by day
starkville city jail
for johnny cash
before it was called starkville, it was boardtown.
before it was boardtown, it was dancing rabbit creek.
chocktaw nation, where land was more than who owned it.
before the trail of tears or treaties and jails and courthouses,
there were dandelions and daisies,
magnolia trees, beetles
bees, buzzing of music
creatures of nature
maybe it was native bloodchanting
johnny heard that day
maybe it was flowers weeping
beneath his drunken stumble
maybe he slipped and fell into a bed
of bluegrass, he woke handcuffedrusset in mud
the ground swept from under his feet.
where is home? maybe he saw
this country for what it was
that day, a series of silly laws
trying to negotiate the earth and whenhe tried
to sing, his voice could only murmur
drenched in spirits surrounded by steel
bars. prison is a state of mind. maybefor a moment he was
the great-grandson of chief mosholatubbee.
a brave heart. a rebel,listening
to the language of land
or it’s quite possible he was nothing
more than stupid-drunk and the reservation was his soul
no matter where he went
he felt displaced
found home in a bottle of whiskey
thirty-six dollars broker than before, holding
the body of a guitar like the trunk of a tree
longing to return to the soil,
the way he plucked those strings
like flowers, wind between branches