by Joy KMT
Charms
I have licked my mothers face clean of tears.
I have keened my tongue against the moon.
The sun rises in the morning,
I call that luck.
rabbits,
boots and pavement
In that order.
Respectable Politics
they say we ratchet we
dream with fairy dust
in the corners of our eyes, swing
our hair like black rapunzels daring some
intrepid fairytale to climb through the cracks of
shattered-glass lullabies
singing it is our duty to celebrate 1952
when the nooses hung empty and any proclamation
worth more than the spit of a dog thrown at
the feasibility of rescuing the black race
from itself
don’t throw no crumbs at us, you boogie bitches
determined to save the ghetto from itself
we be choking like orchids sussing nutrients from
this trail of garbage they call equality/ charity
we don’t want your leftover respectability
no place in the corner of the room so when
you get done eating you can cut us open
like swedish cake, display our entrails
and tell us the state of our hearts
pussys and mouths playing
operation save-a-hoe
mean streets, bad broads
politicians shank us with soft promises
and hard lies, you worried about the color and texture of hair weave
killers kill us and our babies
mark our wombs with tombstones on billboards
they want us practicing everyday for our funerals
and when we give less fucks about the deaths
you think are appropriate for us
you call us ratchet. kiss
teeth. kick
rocks.
Ain’t nobody got time for that.
Second post of two. Read the first!
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