Thinking Over Things

Title V

Title IV

Title III

Title II

Still.

Title I

Honoring The Title

"Mother" a sacred word revered and worth its weight in gold children learn to bow their head and say their grace and bless the hands that made their plate and cracked the whip for heavensake to speak of hurt feels close to sin as though the thought must rest within ignore the pain preserve the picture frame and never tarnish mother's name hush child don't you weep be a keeper of her legacy wear the mask play the role quiet grief outlives the story told beyond the blame of sacred truth down to the bitter root no arms to catch no truth confessed wounds ignored and hearts suppressed a child learns to stand alone when love was owed but never shown in every bond there's give and take a mother's touch a quiet ache a poor heart can hold so much inside like a bruise hides inside a lie what's a plot without a twist a mother’s touch is like a kiss smooth sailing or turbulence though life may pull and currents twist the absence leaves an aching drift

Silence Had Me Pressed

Silence walked in like it knew my name told me chill everything don’t need to be explained as if to say don't look for no explanation I intuited the vibe ain’t feel no need to reply matched its energy and let the moment ride
Silence pulled up a chair sat beside me like a friend of mine I trust to speak truth to me Silence said some truths ain’t meant for mouths to speak I felt it in my spirit had to intuit the cue and stayed silent too like that’s just what real ones do Silence stood up walked across the floor stopped pointed out a object like it was showing me somethin I ain’t notice before looked at me like
“you ain’t gotta say sh**”
Silence stepped in and the whole vibe shifted ain’t say a word but somehow the message hit different respect was the only endorsement Silence nodded like "good you get it" I intuited the energy knew better than to upset it sometimes the deepest conversation is the one held without speakin words

 <...

After Grace

Big momma hands stilled

The kitchen forgot its hymns

Mercy missed supper

Scars To Prove It

does healing look like progress a quiet home inside voices children who do not flinch when their name is called perhaps it does but healing is strange because sometimes it doesn’t erase pain sustained under a legal system where the laws were unwritten but somehow universally understood like a constitution that began with "because I said so" that was the gospel according to mother's mine used to say "I’m gon’ beat the black off of you" and though she did not succeed I got the scars to prove she tried to it thundered inside and rained too that threat traveled from the field to the porch from survival to discipline from history to a struggling household environment every black child knew the warnings that need no explanation like the look that look that had ancestry written all over its face the serious look that didn't mess around that looks that put a child in a child's place passed down hand to hand like cast iron skillets recipes traditional Sunday dinners and stories to...

Straight To The Point

loose strands growing side by side twisting into one tangled vine strengthen by time grows together into one loc locked up forming a strong bond every coil remembers pot liquor folklore and language older than snapping purple hull peas on the front porch strands wrapped around each other and matted together in recognition time took its own time and patience on the journey to teach each one how to stay in place
stuck together like our mamas taught us something that should've stuck with us before the shift separated the timeline and severed the blood tie
weakening the hands on the clock with no regard for the scrubbing labor that parted and greased what started out to be a crocheted craft difficult to pull apart straight don’t always mean it’s found its true form straight don’t always mean it knows where it belongs
straight don’t always mean better straight don’t always mean beauty straight don’t always mean growth
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