fog they say can dissipate like rain and humidity back to the clouds it does not linger – unlike night sweats that soak the bed linens drenching you cold or hot depending on the season it’s the sporadic discomfort of momentary confusion i hate when i wake to my body sweat-soaked in full on visceral self questioning of how this outside the shower wetness is a wet all over wet, that needing a towel wet that checking for pee wet ’cause it can’t be sweat wet but it is even the palms of my hands are wet, closed tight and almost clammy wet
they tighten – my hands – when i sleep laying down but only at night perhaps due to the dream voyages i wake hands always clutched around some invisible treasure so tight i have to pry my fingers open i look expectantly eyes straining to see what i am holding if i check before i am fully in waking consciousness, i might be able to see what it is before the day hides it because i still feel things in my hands just before and there’s a faint image visible just before there isn’t
what is in my hands?
and that is when i discover i am holding my breath too as if i were deep diving without gear and need to inhale because there is no air in my lungs
when dad died, a year to the date, i passed out on my couch from the held in grief and when i awoke four hours later, i gasped for air as if i had been coming out of something or someplace where air was not there, as if raising from the dead
it’s the same feeling and the fog rises grey and grainy enveloping the room hovering till i force myself to remember the day of the week, the time of day, and what i need to do next
I’m on an airplane. Time is shifting. I’ve shifted. I close my eyes and I see the face of a woman I cannot name. Alone. Here I am. In an unfamiliar room. I open my eyes and I remember my granny Addie Mae Brown.
Now I’m sitting. Heavy breathing. Whose breathing? I’m breathing….. My breath — is all I hear in this dark theatre. Fear has found me. Quietly snuck upon my mind reminding me that Black Women are often forgotten. My mind Her mind Their minds combusting in time // with time. As I walk through crowded streets history begins to speak. My bones remember names I cannot say aloud
My voice is unable to conjure stories left untold. So I shadowbox old thoughts as I try to speak the names of women unknown— yet who look like me. And still go unseen.
What happens to a Black Woman when she goes without care? Her mind Their mind My mind piecing together new memories // carrying old memories as I seek a sustainable life.
Yesterday, I attended a wonderful webinar hosted by Hedgebrook, “Exit Strategies: How to End a Poem” with Chet’la Sebree, author of Mistress, Field Study. Ms. Sebree generously shared her jewels and knowledge with us. The atmosphere was inviting. Community in Hedgebrook webinars is really comforting and uplifting. To write together is nice once in a while. We learned more than “endings”. The webinars are recorded and there is always a “holding space” segment after the webinar where the participants who can stay have more time to discuss the art or any other things with the instructors. This is the part that makes the community so comforting and inspiring.
We worked on exercises using poetry that we had already written or new pieces. Below is a new piece that I started in the webinar but seems to be evolving. Poetry has been something that I have written and read all my life; something I make a point to continue to study – it never hurts to work on craft.
Dying Continents
The earth shook ferociously Tsunamis terrorized the coastlines Whole towns destroyed Whole futures washed away in an instant
When things shift There is no time to steady yourself against the moving tectonic plates forcing new terrain Or time to gather the energy to do more than stand
I am bound to the memory Of the theft Of things that cannot be restored Or salvaged Of organs failing Of bleeding out damned spot
We wait for endings, songs and measured grace Grace to cover Grace to continue Did we forget Or simply let it go
They say there is a new continent Built on the scars They say there is new contentment In unchartered lands New content In place of what had been
I ran into my mother’s voice; it came out of nowhere – attached to a file on my computer
hit me like a bolt of lightning
I gasped, I cried out, “Mommy!”
I was a ball of emotions
I played it over and over again, oh, how I’ve missed the sound of her voice
She’s been in my dreams for the last month
“what is he reading?” she asks, upset that death forbids her tend to it
the collage of her is everywhere
even my breasts are mommy’s breasts now, courting gravity like a first kiss, surprised yet not so impressed
my hands are starting to cook like hers, I bought a new pot so I can make her stew
been craving it for years, I am my mother’s daughter, her face is in my face
and I think she’s ready to tell her story
She’s coming to me like my characters do but she’s more forceful – like coming back to the middle of a semi-heated conversation we were just having to say one more thing
so familiar
“WHAT A FRIEND WE HAVE IN JESUS, ALL OUR SINS AND GRIEF TO BEAR, WHAT A PRIVILEGE TO CARRY, EVERYTHING TO GOD IN PRAYER…”
Her favorite song rises out of the silence in my head
yeah, she’s ready…
and then, last night, I was reading old blogs of mine because I couldn’t sleep nor could I remember me before–
and there, in the comments was Erica (Bennett) telling me she hopes I feel better – the words were audible, clear
“Erica?”
“I hope you feel better…”
“I miss you, Erica…”
and in the background, I could hear another friend saying, ”God loves me.”
He was walking briskly towards me so full of joy…
the dead are speaking…
it’s making me shake myself like Samson and get to swinging
’cause I got things to do…
They are reminding me to redeem the time because the space between now and eternity is as far away and as close as the speed of sound…
I seem to have forgotten – stuck here like I am in the hardly bearable heat of these walls and the “go nowhere” doors from sun up to moon down. I tell myself that I am not going to faint or lose heart, that I am going to subdue this beast one hour at a time, one day at a time, by the Grace of God…
but I really want flight, I yearn for air… I want wings and I want wind to ride. I been looking for signs of movement, looking for a great big wind to come skip-to-my-lou all through this mess, dislodge some rivers for baptisms, root up healing herbs and toss some around for everybody to have.
I want to relax, I want to float like a leaf and land picturesquely on the grass showing off the beautiful colors of my whole self. I don’t want to apologize for nothing not for floating, landing or seeking air. If I push myself, I bet I can land far enough away from here so I can breathe new/fresh pockets of wind…bet I can land somewhere east of here, near appalachia, up where lavender lilies bloom, where rose of sharon sings…
I can’t breathe here no more in this heavy porous atmosphere, it’s dropped down way too low, to the little grassy piece of earth I live on and I just can’t breathe. I thought I was imagining it but it’s real – the air is thick; thick and sticky like a glob of peanut butter caught in the throat daring you to drink water, threatening to thicken regardless…
I need air and space and
God cracking the skies…
Oh, God, blow on us, shower us with rain and the latter rain, deliver us, heal this land…
Heal the land, Father… we humble ourselves and pray
we pray
we Pray
we PRAY
We dream of riding the night winds again, of sleeping well and waking rested
send Your wind, help us fly
lift us up high enough to catch hold
let us mount up with wings as eagles — send the wind, Lord, send the Wind…
But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.
I’m not sure how it came about, but the folks at my high school decided that they wanted to have a cultural celebration of sorts. All 45 seniors and 20, or so, underclassmen at our little magnet high school were expected to participate in some capacity. While I was part of a Mexican folkloric dance group at that time, I had no intention of dancing in front of my entire school. As I’d mentioned in a previous post, there was very little fun I took from that endeavor. Additionally, I was still traumatized by the demands of peddling the “joy and skills you too can acquire” of accordion playing to my middle school classmates that I just wasn’t going to put myself out there like that anymore. Still, I was expected to participate.
Unsure of what to do, and with a day to go, my Spanish teacher (who was coordinating this whole ordeal) suggested that I read an excerpt of short story written by a Latin@ author. I hate to admit it but at the time I can’t say that I knew the work of very many Latin@ authors—call it a lack of awareness/exposure, ignorance, what have you, I was drawing blanks. So my Spanish teacher handed me a few books from his desk and encouraged me to check them out, and from those few, I was immediately drawn to Michele Serros’ Chicana Falsa and Other Stories of Death, Identity, and Oxnard.
Copy of Chicana Falsa
Chicana Falsa was a compact offering of non-fiction and poetry detailing Serros’ complex, comical grappling of her own identity. It was genuine, often times heartbreaking, and funny as hell. It was one of the first pieces of literature that I deeply connected to and made me feel seen.
Michele Serros reading her work at Lollapalooza.
For our school celebration, I ended up selecting the story “Attention Shoppers”. It was a satirical piece that shows Serros being made aware of the notion that, even within supermarket aisles, discrimination was alive and well. This was proven to her by way of packaging styles for Malibu Style Vegetables vs. Latino Style Vegetables and the connotations each evokes.
“…. look at this, the Latino Style Vegetables are all spilling out of this wicker basket, all overflowing, messy like. Insinuating that we are overflowing, overcrowding what they think is their land. And what’s with this wicker basket?”
Back in January I had the pleasure of visiting an exhibit at University Hall (Cal State University Chanel Islands) in honor of her life’s work.
I cried when I saw the exhibit.
Most everything that she’d been inspired by and written about was there— the desk her mother gifted her, journals, framed t-shirts, concert tickets, her skateboard… it was overwhelming. Michele Serros’ work has meant so much to me for a very long time. I often think of her, her writing and the impact her artistic voice has had on me. She’s the writer whose work I most often go back and re-read. I love the familiarity. It feels like home.
I meant to post these photos a while back but it didn’t feel right then. I was writing about loss and it’s not what I wanted to do, especially in a week that already felt so sorrowful. I decided then that I would give it some time and wait until my next go-round on the blog to post them because surely the world would be in a different place from where it was at the time.
And we are, now, in a very different place.
But it feels right to remember the people, places and voices that bring us joy.
