Saturday, 5 December 2015

Our men do not belong to us.
Even my own father left one afternoon,
Is not mine.

My brother is in prison,
Is not mine.
My uncles,
They go back home
And they are shot in the head,
Are not mine.

My cousins,
stabbed in the street
For being too or not enough,
are not mine.

Then the men we try to love say
We carry too much loss,
Wear too much black,
Are too heavy to be around,
Much too sad to love.
Then they leave,
And we mourn them too.

Is that what we’re here for?
To sit at kitchen tables,
Counting on our ļ¬ngers the ones who died,
Those who left,
And the others who were taken by the police,
Or by drugs,
Or by illness,
Or by other women?
It makes no sense.

Look at your skin,
Her mouth,
These lips,
Those eyes,
My God, listen to that laugh.

The only darkness we should allow
Into our lives is the night,
For even then, we have the moon.


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