Blackboards rinse chalk dust
Into my eyes, and there’s
a Fante song stuck in my throat
with nowhere to go, the way
I am always dreaming of being
in five places at once, and of
having things I do not have. All
the borders around my body
dissolve into a haze of lights like
the ones over the hill behind
my grandfather’s farm. See?
My grandfather does not have
a farm, and I do not have
On Sunday morning, I walk to the nail salon
and try to remember all the house numbers and
their corresponding colors—
I know nothing about this place,
but if I look pretty and smile at the
neighbors, I bet this could be heaven.
My feet nuzzle into pavement and
count the number of bricks
that promise to turn me over to
who cannot remember
what it is I have lost
My church—all forms of it,
White Jesus, Post-Colonial Witches—
collapses at my feet,
Everything is too tiring to praise.
The image in this post is an adapted from an original image by Sara Biljana Gaon (off) via Flickr.
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