I had a godmother named Nafeesah

June 16, 2016

who wore a hijab even on her night shifts at the ICU,

though she wasn't muslim,

and had been spit in the face by a white man

because she could not save his dying son.

Rage does not provoke itself—

Shutup and eat your mechado.

Eyes shot to the furrow of her sable face

then to the graphed concrete of oversized sidewalks

then to the anesthetic murk grazing hushed walls

and overturned chairs.

Hours before, my mother driving under the dayspring train,

Erykah Badu twirling from the radio,

said there is no difference between me and Michelle Obama

and I believed her.

Saw a doctor resting flat back on a green couch

below winking lights of Roger Wood Johnson's waiting room,

where my sister and I sat so she could go to work.

If I was a mother, I'd always be mad.

Like Nafeesah clocking out,

the scarf matching her scrubs,

telling us to come on.

Doesn't ignorance stroke nice when it rolls off the tongue?

Like Oedipus Rex and his mother, wife,

Jessye Norman. Born to be king.

My godmother using the hijab to wipe her face,

silk tulle of innocent intentions.

Their hands, he says, ruin everything.

Learned any man is a frightening one,

palms so sharp they could puree my skin to syrup.

Peace and blessings manifest with every lesson learned,

taking more time than any man needs to swallow.

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