Foster Angel

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What an honor it was to have

grown up in the melting pot

of another women’s grave yard.

I belonged to someone and it was effortless.

Didn’t have to tug, twist and turn to much to squeeze the 

We weren’t born with silver spoons

 in our mouths but Ms. Gloria just made

 life so finger licking good.

It was like she had childhoods in her oven,

didn’t put them in until they were fully risen,

didn’t take them out until they were golden brown.

And though so many times these

care givers were like badly composed statues,

over lapping their niches at one point and

leaving them vacant at another, she wasn’t.

No, not her.

She had a knack for second chances.

Bring me the ruins, rotten, homeless,

 hopeless, heroine addicted. Bring me

 them babies that be feigning, and they did.

She cradled baby girls out of crack pipes

 and grew them up into women.

When she saw us sinking under the

embrace of our sorrows like swimmers

 in a drowning clutch, she'd pull us up,

 blinded and panting and smack the hell out of us.

 

To her, pity was a second hand prison,

it owned yo ass, could pimp you out to

any half felt emotion it pleased, next thing

you know you'll be locking pinkies with the devil,

selling yo self on these streets.

Hell no! Not after I done slaved over this bed

cultivating dreams for you.

Two men knocked at the door that evening.

Ms. Gloria begged them not to wake

me up out of my sleep, they did anyway,

said it was time to leave.

 

I could feel my insides ripping away

from my skin, I grew cold. Wondering

how much of a women I could carry with me.

Nothing but numb withered patches of

confusion to carry me home...I was home.

Not every time you take a child out of

a household are you returning them

to a family but it would cost too

much to consider that.

 

 

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