Forgive me Audre Lorde, I have sinned
but we both could give a damn about that.
Forgive me Lorde, the master’s tools
brought my house down. I begged him with my own hands.
I’ve been floorboards, wing nuts
& slow blues at his pale hard feet, his full moon flesh
my new moon flesh, waxed nights
of bloodcandles, wince, grazing teeth & no history
until morning, ruined by his glued, yarned experiment
at our natural, his braided unwashed attack against our tentacled blaze
is pulled sugar to my mouth. Lorde, he doesn’t know
how long it takes to look the mirror in the eye, love what the world won’t.
Lorde, forgive me for not grabbing the shears,
forgive me the night I let him stay in my bed after
he said race wasn’t real, for harboring
him in our earth caked skin & not making him walk
to the store, around the store,
drive anywhere while he was covered in our brown bright hand-me-down.
Lorde, there are brown boys I never called back,
sweet as God, gorgeous sun descended men, perfect & plump
but none of them made me fail
as joyous, none of them so undid my spine’s subtle tension,
I don’t want to tell you none of them
went to college, but it’s true. Lorde, we just didn’t relate past our hued past
& isn’t that what uppity people say?
Is the new spelling of my name T-O-M? Does it matter anymore?
I want to tell you about the president,
but not what some say about him. I don’t want to tell you about being 4
& playing with white barbies,
about going to college in a small town, about rent
& the men who paid it for a while,
their wrinkling ghosting bodies, about who lives in Brooklyn,
about Chicago & how she bled,
and that Davis boy or how ain’t nothing changed & nothing hasn’t,
this half dream world, good enough utopia, & still,
his hair. Lorde, what is your word? He’s in my bed, dreads splayed,
taking up too much space.
Audre, gravity is pulling me everywhere. I sit on the edge,
if I fall, I not sure where I’ll go.
nope. fuck that. your body is still your body. your arms still wings,—Danez Smith (danezsmith) , from "Director’s Note: a note on the body for my 20 year old self," published in alice blue (via myshoesuntied)
your mouth still a gun. you tragic monster, misfiring bird.
you have all you need to be a hero. don’t save the world,
but do save yourself. when prayer doesn’t work: dance, fly, fire.
1. smoke above the burning bush2. archnemesis of summer night3. first son of soil4. coal awaiting spark & wind5. guilty until proven dead6. oil heavy starlight7. monster until proven ghost8. gone9. phoenix who forgets to un-ash10. going, going, gone11. gods of shovels & black veils12. what once passed for kindling13. fireworks at dawn14. brilliant, shadow hued coral15. (I thought to leave this blankbut who am I to name us nothing?)16. prayer who learned to bite & sprint17. a mother’s joy & clutched breath
For me, the body is too sacred not to include in poetry. Most of my poems start in the body, often coming from something physical that then inspires the words to come about. I think dance and movement is a thing of my life, not necessarily in a formal sense, but in a ‘I dance all around the house and on the bus stop’ sense. If I am to accurately write my world, then my poems must dance, they must sweat and get weak in the knees. Also, I hate the gym, so I make my poems do some cardio for me.—Danez Smith, interviewed by Jason Bayani for Berkeley Slam (via bostonpoetryslam)