Search

Black(ness) in Bold: Black Professors, Black Experiences and Black Magic.

a dialectical display of revolution, research, ideas, theory and love.

Category

Poetry

Reroute(d).

On a bright Sunday morning,
she murdered expectations without a weapon, but with a truce,
instead.

She made a truce with her heart
that Reality
could no longer fuck with her,
even if it meant that sometimes she had to buy books

instead of pretty flowers.

You see, people are made of flesh and bone. And blood.

And their actions hurt if you rely on them.

But if you can only hold on
And hold out for the “fuck you”
Buried deep in your consciousness,
Nobody can ever hurt you
Again.

© Crystal Belle 2016

After the Morning Afters

  
My Daughter’s cheeks
Will always remind me of her father’s love fuse,
Which he only turns on when cooking or kissing.
The box that he keeps it in is similar to the way she solves puzzles: fast and free.

My Son’s eyes
Will always remind me of that one time I dedicated words to Black boys who were forgotten.
And some folks thought that meant I forgot sistas, too
although my very body betrayed me.

But what children do is this:
They make your grow again, through the years you never knew apart from pictures.
They make you question and wonder about your choices.
They make you push some people away,
Even yourself, sometimes.
They make you treasure the pancakes your husband made with flaxseed so that daughter would get more fiber that day.
They make you tell someone
fuck you
and your fake
emancipation Proclamations.
They make you
Become as free
As (un)humanly
(im)possible.

© Crystal Belle 2016

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑