on the subject of a black woman's silence

my silence is not willful apathy.
it is not the absence of rage.

it is not a lack of desire
to process,
to protest,
to educate.

it is not consent,
no inaudible whisper of
"yes" to injustice,
no hushed utterance of
"this is ok, everything is ok."

do not equate the shutting of my mouth
with the closing of my eyes and ears
to the tension so tangibly felt.

i am aware.

i know that for some,
silence is agreement
with all of the above.

not so for me.

it has become hard to believe
that the pen is mightier than anything,
that one's voice holds power.
when reality hits
and history repeats,
i feel choked and powerless.

in saying nothing,
i preserve self.
it feels like the only power i have.

(untitled)

during a virtual poetry night last week, we were given the prompt to write a letter to someone on our last day of life. without even thinking, i knew who i was going to write about, and probably could've gotten to work on the spot. the other folks wanted more time, so we took the following week to reflect and write and read them to each other yesterday.

there’s no way to make up the lost time.

phone calls that could’ve happened but didn’t,

“thinking of you” texts never sent,

so many words unspoken.

i was too passive.

i thought i’d see you next Christmas,

thought i’d get another chance to call for your birthday,

thought i had so many moments left,

endless memories to make in this life.

i didn’t use the time i had

because i thought i had nothing but time.

and ever since we lost you,

i’ve found so much guilt in your place,

unanswered questions mingled with regret--

did you know how much i loved you?

did my actions make that clear when my words didn’t?

can you forgive my selfishness?

can you look past my attraction to convenience?

i honestly don’t know why i wrote all this down

When tomorrow i’ll get the chance to say it directly to you.

four years ago,

i prayed that your death wasn’t real,

that you’d somehow survived,

that it wasn’t your body they’d identified.

once my heart accepted reality,

i hoped that death didn’t hurt you like it hurt us.

now that my own last day has arrived,

only four words come to mind:

I’ll see you soon.

(for my cousin Brian. he would've been 36 today.)

parallel

the life-breath of God // the last-breath in death
rage-fueled fires tonight // Holy-Spirit Pentecost tomorrow

an agent of protest // a murder weapon
violence begets violence // sirens beget sirens
black and white thinking // protests into riots

proud to live in this skin // scared to die because of it
numbness // sadness // fear // rage

too tired to keep writing // too tired to stop