The poetry inside of me has just been eeking out, and there has been no context. Normally, this wouldn’t bother me, but I feel like the nexus to experience and expression has entirely too much room for all kinds of unintended results. So, in a show of underbelly, I am briefly explaining things. The following poem came from a Mother Moment where I considered my daughter’s mixed race, my beloved Blackness, and the current nuances of social politick. I’m sharing this just a few days after the end of Black History’s annual month-long marketing show; one month past the six-year anniversary of my son Moses’ pre-birth passing; on the two-month anniversary of the January 6th US Capital attack by US Citizens; and a couple of weeks past watching documentaries about Black Fine Art, and Toni Morrison, a major influence in my creative self.
I give you Room Needed.
I need a room
A golden room
Hot
I want it like an oven
Somewhere I can cook my feelings down into a roux
Something I can use to form me into myself
It is an old recipe
But with a lot of steps
My pride, salty
My guilt, oversweet
My griotte, rich but low in quantity
My purpose, undercooked
I need a room
A golden room
Where I can fall in love with myself
Yet again
And brand new
In a way that brings life to my babies
Where I can satisfy the pain of my unshouted shouts
I need a room
And I need room
Big and small
Like words
More and less, please
But still a golden room
Where I can lotion up my ashy dreams
Slather the gravy of heart
The legacy of my body
my race
my sex
my spirit
all of it
In a bright golden room
One of sun
and daughter and son
One I can float in like a river
Squeeze in like sexy boots
Where my body is justice
Where it just is
I need room
I need a room