For Beloveds Everywhere

My friends and lovers, we don't cry the way mother's mothers used to cry.

These women used to cry whole mud rivers made of
swollen mounds of flesh, more hematoma than breast
full of lactated milk undrank,
babies spared from slavery and genocide.
Mothers' rivers full of broken bones,
effigies of the old gods and goddesses torn up by their clay roots
deforested and shoved into makeshift dustpan corners
old names buried in the wagging tongues of the colonizers.
Tears that do not stay locked in the lachrymal glands, like patient bullets in loaded rifles.
Tears that go down as smooth as battery acid, waiting to be unearthed from the ribs,
great fossils of past hurts.
The spindly bird-bones of memory.
A wise mestiza once said to me,
"Not every song we sing has to be a song of triumph. Some songs will be of sorrow, of failure."
Sealing away our longings and hurt, lungs esophagus and pitiless stomachs made reservoirs of inky waters black and bursting,
Our bodies sweet and swollen blood oranges, leaking and weeping like fresh tattoos.

The hope to cry out loud, more than mothers and mother's mothers quivering eyes could have prayed for us when they looked down on us in heavy arms, only babies swaddled in tissue paper hope.
My friends and lovers, we can cry hallejuahs-worth of big, outspoken, wailing entitled tears.
We don't have to die secret deaths anymore,
carrying suitcases full of ash to our own burial grounds.
Your statistics will speak, no longer a plot point, a simple of unit of data,
voices as fleshy and proud and wounded as the bodies that hold them.
No more silently ticked charcoal tally-marks on the heart's walls.

This poem is for every woman
who doesn't get to stay home, windows drawn,
hoping to unname themselves when the faint grey whispers of men whose names they knew and didn't know creep onto their bodies
leaving a ripe stink like sulfur.

This is for every woman that doesn't want to.
This is for the ones with tender eyes like horses, the ones who are able to smell lightening and try to warn you, shooting clay arrows to get your attention before it is too late.
This is for the ones whose quivers are always full, the ones who are making and making and making arrows. This is not a metaphor. This is a warning.

To Ethel (draft 1)

Finally, it is storming like Seattle should, and I can move again. As if the raindrops and I are playing freeze tag, and just to be a tease, the storm clouds waited and tapped a toe, giggling as I sat crouched with a pen over a page, waiting for my heart's ink to come out. Here we go. This poem is a response to my beautiful and talented friend Sidony's piece "To Lucille," about her friendships with women.

To Ethel.
I stink. I know I stink because I just smoked a cigarette or five, neither of us have showered in days, we ate burritos at 3am, I'm wearing amber oil on all my pulse points, and I am thinking of that time we fried kimchi in my kitchen when there was nothing else to eat. The odor of my memory is pungent and wafts through my room, all up and down the weathered staircase that looks like it's made of driftwood, following us out the front door as we bundle up (probably much more than we need to) to go get coffee in the flat, grey sunlight. We walk down the street in hats and scarves and legwarmers and tights with geometric designs and sweaters that would make Cosby blush, looking over our shoulders to make sure the white men are looking as we rail against white male privilege. We needn't have worries; of course they are. We are a walking, snarling piece of free form jazz. And in this American northwestern city no-one even thinks twice about looking at the two black girls on the street that look like a moving Picasso.

I wish they all could be California girls.
Ethel, do you remember the day we learned together, in the house that you were raised in, what eyeliner is for (not for making the eyes look larger, but for drawing designs on our faces)? How about that time you cut my god-awful perm off, disembodied strands of hair that looked and felt like they came from a wig on your pink tile floor, leaving only tight, soft ringlets resting lazily on my scalp, and the first step on my path to getting free. The up-all-night reckonings with our brilliance, and how they didn't even realize what we had memorized and learned with our bodies when we were ten years old and younger. How could they possibly be so behind, and we were the ones that needed catch up? We made up languages that simplified even the most abstract concepts into one or two words and knowing glances, and taught one another how to read tarot cards. Remember that one time, when that one white girl said "Bob Dylan is the voice of the revolution," and we both cackled in her face and told her what was up: "Hell no girl, Chuck D is the voice of the fucking revolution" I'm realizing now that we even got that one wrong. Our brown mouths, crinkled into smiles with the faintest of unapologetic hair on the upper lip and glimmering teeth, these hold the voice of any revolution. Because all we have to do is say "I'm alive and I'm taking what's mine" and they'll be quaking in their britches.

God only knows what I'd be without you.
The truth is, you were always the brilliant one of the two of us. By the time I'd met you at eighteen, you already had an intimate knowledge of how to take care of yourself using what you found on the ground in an alley and to fight like a dog for the things that you loved and believed in. You told me about books I had never heard of, moved with me to syncopated rhythms, spat rhymes in my face and encouraged me to spit them right back out. We played dress up in your grandmother's scarves and held photo shoots and philosophical summits in your uncle's living room. Our experienced fingertips moving through record after record and brown-leaved books with dog-eared pages, always hungry for the next thing that we could add to the pastiche we created for our personal viewing pleasure.

We'll have fun, fun, fun till her daddy takes the t-bird away.
Eventually it came time for you to pack up and move back home, because you ran out of money and we both ran out of ideas. A slow-motion punch to the jaw, and suddenly you're gone. Now it's all wilted songs sung from a balcony choked with creeping ivy. For California in December, for another Sagittarius, for knowing it's you from behind by the drawings on your sneakers. We reconvene occasionally now, and it's like it always was: you show me the miracles of putting raw honey in our kinky ass hair, give me a Moleskine notebook; I feed you brown rice and kale cooked in ume plum vinegar, and paint your toenails a color named "Lickity-Split Lime." But there is no more turning around and knowing exactly where you were by the smell of sandalwood and dirt; I, like a lame bloodhound, can't pick up the scent anymore.

thoughts on femme

One of my new favorite quotes:

"People associated short skirs, frenetic dancing, shared flasks, and public necking with feminism" - Linda Scott, "Fresh Lipstick"

People don't like femmes because we're dangerous.

We can fuck your shit up with our stillettos, the same ones we wore when you were checking us out, and we let you know that we could see you looking just by staring you bold in the face.
we're dangerous because we want you to look, and because we are that type of girl.

We're dangerous because our black as tar, brown as clay, lily white, fat, thin, curvy bodies make your dicks hard and your pussies wet.

We're dangerous because we don't really give a shit who shaves and who doesn't, and where they do and where they don't.

We show our legs, bruised from our romp with last night's mistress, or rollerderby, or dancing, under our sundresses, Carharts, lycra micro minis, and pantsuits.

We're flirtatious, we're coy, we're bold, we're direct, we're innocents and we're sluts. we are all of these as once, and don't see them as paradoxes, but as more chances to expand our arsenal.

We can change a bike tire with the best of the boys and the butches. And if we can't, we're not buying the bullshit that says that it makes us less radical than you.

We play dress up with our girlfriends, our girl-friends, our boyfriends, and our boy-friends.

We take care of one another's kids, and let them play in our makeup, if that's what he, or she, or ze wants to do that day.

By the way, that look that's on display in Forever 21? Yeah, We found some shit in a free box and handcrafted it about a year before they were mass producing it at the Gap.

walking home

Today I had I really great conversation with the mama of the baby I watch for work. She's writing her dissertation on representations of black female sexuality in cinema.

She provided for me, without having realized it, or at least not letting me in on it if she did, something I've been greatly needing lately, and that's a sense of direction and a pair of open arms.

Sometimes I wonder if the easier path would be better for me over all. I mostly just wonder that when I look at people I used to know. So many of them are living these lives that are, to some degree really appealing, if only for their comfort level. To be the prototypical upwardly-mobile black girl at college, with not a hair out of place or ever letting one's leg hair get long enough to notice, it'd be a lot easier in someways. To force down the parts of me that don't line up with convention, or to ignore the things that I think about, the ones that keep me up at night because they're burning for a voice. I give those things voice, because I've never been able not to notice them. I just got a vocabulary for the voice to speak with in the last couple of years. But when I didn't know the words it was so much easier to keep it quiet.

I wonder if all of the projects, both internal and external, are even worth it. I wonder frankly if I just try to do these things because I can see holes, and wiring, and marionette strings, but can't quite figure out how to make it stop, this system that I see ruining everyone that I love. So I do what I can, in the name of exposing the gears and churning cranks, but maybe I only do it so I can sleep at night.

bell hooks has this bit in "Yearning" where she talks about black folks who are at the margins not only of mainstream white consciousness, but mainstream black consciousness. Those who are committed to explicitly anti-capitalist projects, and don't equate black self-actualization with black capitalism, and are not afraid of losing their "blackness" by consuming all types of cultures. She brings in this awesome quote by Paulo Friere (that I'm gonna butcher) that says that we can begin as objects to then reenter as subjects. All of these projects are an attempt to steak out subjectivity in a culture and society that writes me out as the object, essentially by definition.