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.