"africa
does not need your tears
or
your prayers
or
your money,
or
your t-shirts,
or
your telethons,
or
your hands ever so lovingly placed
on her buttocks.
your mouth at her breasts.
your fists in her eyes.
she wants you to stop pissing in her face
and
calling it water.
she wants you to leave.
she is the cradle of civilization.
you hate that.
but,
one day
you will reap
what
you have sown."

Body Knowledge

My body will no longer apologize. I am an anomaly of soft curves made from proudly eaten cupcakes, i am skin made of the earth from the world’s first civilizations. my hair with its tangled forests bows down to no comb or brush. it is the dominant trait from the blood of my ancestors, warriors and lion hearted girls. my head sits just high enough to balance this crown. my hips hold my jeans up and guide my swagger. My feet with their calloused bottoms tell the stories of midnight dances in the street and every tree that I have climbed and fallen out of while trying to prove to my brothers that girls are strong too, the puncture wounds from my sewing needle are battle scars from the war of living my stretch marks map out my journey these scars are embellishments decorating my shoulders and thighs reminding me to keep struggling but also that it’s okay to be vulnerable. And my small hands can’t completely fix everything I’ve broken, but they’re learning . My eyes are wide with pupils that are floating in an exosphere nearing heaven. they are searching for God, for beauty that scratches deeper than any manicured hand could. My teeth are switchblades shaving to a point every word that I spit. They open up to the temple of this body. So don’t ask if I’ll close the space. And though this body may be just a cloak for this soul, it has taught this soul many things. i must forgive myself now for betraying my body for the voices of an adopted culture that told me freedom comes from beauty that is silken and bears a straight nose. i must undo the white flag of surrender than binds my immigrant mouth. for my beauty will no longer surrender, and my body will no longer apologize. 

The Western Woman’s Burden

I’ve always believed it to be true when Jesus said remove the plank from your eye before reaching for the speck of dust in your neighbor’s.

America. I fear you have been staring too long through half blind eyes trying to cut out a misconceived problem with a blunt scalpel

While behind you, your children run around unkempt perpetuating the rape you taught them was “no big deal”

Then you are offended when the women in India cut free from the gauze-thin ropes of your shiny pre-packaged aid.

The boulevards you built with silver are green and run rampant with street rats disguising themselves as civilized men

They shave their fur for the day, don pin-stripe suits and kiss their trophy wives good day

Then at night their tails grow long, their teeth sharpen , and they scavenge for school girls like finding scraps in the gutter,  just to return their broken bodies to the sidewalks like nothing happened, because nothing did, she was asking for it.

And America, you watch, and continue to cook meals in your dirty kitchen for those poor suffering women

But the Amherst college girl was not asking for it.

The young woman in Ohio was not asking for it.

Her resistance was not a come-on

The delicate holy temples of their bodies were not invitations

But we are so doped up with privilege

 our minds are hazy with the false mist of superiority

When will you learn. When will we learn?

Feminism was never meant to be another Panama Canal for capitalism

But the money from your Harvard femme solidarity clubs still draws your eyes from the festering wounds on your daughters

They cry rape and are ignored while their attackers walk free and more victims stay silent

America. You neglect your children but save paint to color yourself mother of the year

And idolize the men who commodify our little girls

America. Hear this. We have struck a match that is burning us up from the inside

How long will we continue to have a fetish for violence?

How long can we pretend that we have no crisis?

How long can we pretend not to feel the flames?

On Days When the Mountains are in Clear View

I try not to miss you too much because when I do, it feels like the seams of my skin are coming undone exposing my blood and with it every memory of you. You were always a part of me. Our hands fit perfectly together and the bed was never too small. Last night I dreamed that I found you, by the edge of the old swimming pool, but like usual you didn’t seem like you were ever lost. You led me by the hand into the waters, and as we went deeper and deeper, the deep end turned into the ocean. Then, like an anchor you wrapped around me and we sank, but I felt so safe. All too soon you let go and raced for the surface I tried to hold you, but you slipped through my arms and when you reached the top your lungs collapsed and your body shattered into a million pieces. from below I saw the lovely debris of your bones float down all around me, the ocean was full of you. I spread out my arms to try to catch it all, to keep you to myself so I would never have to miss you. But then I woke up, and you were still gone, and I would never find you.