Grant - In These Black Hands

Mindworks Publishing Copyright 2019 by Mindworks Publishing Published by Mindworks Publishing, Missouri City, TX 77489 Cover Design: Mindworks Publishing; Photograph by Gabriel Bucataru, Stocksy.com All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Mindworks Publishing. In These Black Hands By Salisa Lynne Grant For Myles I am a black woman the music of my song some sweet arpeggio of tears is written in a minor key and I can be heard humming in the night Can be heard humming in the night Mari Evans Acknowledgements This collection is dedicated to my son Myles. He was and is my greatest creation. His life and loss have propelled me to keep the promises that I made to him as well as the promises that I have made to myself. This collection is one of those promises.

To the people who raised me, my mother Denise, my sister Lucreshia, and my brother DeLon, thank you could never capture what you have done. I am undeniably and willingly yours. I love you with intention. For molding me, for your laughter, for loving me on purpose, I am infinitely grateful. Thank you to my friends who have called me poet when I forgot myself, and called me family when I needed it. To the people who hold me up when the weight of grief has caused me to collapse: Fatima, Shirkira, Nina, Michael, Allison, and Kendra.

Thank you for seeing me and not looking away. Thank you to my colleagues and professors at Howard University. Your care and challenges have forced me to grow in ways that I did not know to be possible. To Evan: thank you for loving me and for loving our son. You have carried me to the end of this world and back. This project would only be a dream if it were not for my incredible publisher Janette Grant who also happens to be my cousin.

Our family is vast, we are spread across many miles, but Janettes personal and professional support has been a light that will not dim. These people are proof of Gods love for me. The ability to know Gods love is the essence of a blessed life. I am so blessed. Lastly, to my people, Black lovers everywhere who smile in the face of fire. Thank you for teaching me what Black love is and what it can be.

Table of Contents Part I she called in her soul Passing it On she has always been all teeth In These Black Hands Fast Providences nebula Covered In the Night for Stokely Carmichael/Kwame Ture 13 Dreams for Sister a too white moon Wrestling Our Symphonies Tenderheaded three feet Open Promise she called in her soul Part II Black Lovings Myles II Storage Equilibrium quiet story for Gene Five Little Girls for Black Girls who cry in the Night 37 Make Believe We Let Wonder Take Us Before you stop loving My People Myles III/Still Black Pull Brown boy Night Surrounds Us We On An Answered Prayer Instead We Roam Black Lovings Sunflower Monday How dare we laugh? Together 4 Hours in a Missouri Street for Michael Brown 58 Untitled Her Body, a Museum About the Author Part I she called in her soul Here was peace. She pulled in her horizon like a great fish-net. Pulled it from around the waist of the world and draped it over her shoulder. So much of life in its meshes! She called in her soul to come and see. Zora Neale Hurston Passing it On She asked him, Where do the stars go in the morning? And when he told her they go inside of us, she believed him. Hugged herself tightly and shined a blinding smile in his direction.

I can feel them in my fingers, my belly and my nose. He nodded and pointed upwards, then at her. We carry them within us, and when we smile, they show. One day she will tell her children of their mother who was born to laugh. Stories will pass her tongue, dancing on electric energy, lips permanently formed into a stirring smile. She will tell them of the times she ran for her life, the purple nights that turned violent, bodies dissolving, liquor that burned her chest and made her brave.

The times she was a stranger to fear. Of the love, premature and premarital, the love and reckless smoke that clouded her breath. Of the times she imagined death, forgetting its cousins-- hope, possibility, and future. She will tell them of the fragmented bodies she put back together, hearts and hands egos and friendships, the lives she saved, the trouble she caused and shared. She might also tell them of the men who ran her wild and made her crazy. The ones she refused to love, and those who could never love her back.

She might, she will not remember everything, but what she does, she will make theirs. she has always been all teeth she was taught to blend in early. little girl with a colossal heart, beating everybodys drums. her smiles slowly became forced. smile young lady, lemme see those teeth. they stopped dancing. instead they waited, they were quiet. they fell soundlessly into the shallowest pool. salty baby girl blues. she became sorry by default. apologies in every curl, her sense of touch grew dull. growth, stunted. she died and came back to haunt her mothers memories. i remember the moment i decided i wasnt God. do you? In These Black Hands I would wake up in a small pool of velvet wet red quickly drying no pain, just damp, just me, running across a clorox white pillow case another pretty white thing ruined a flutter of fear enters as I remember my mothers fury I cant afford to buy new pillow cases every week little girl but the butterflies settle as I remember hands strong, sure, and brown pushing my five year old head back to slow the bleeding her hands running through a fresh relaxer there is no hardness in these black hands there is no anger in her hands there is only love, there is only me they tell the story her mouth will not allow. do you? In These Black Hands I would wake up in a small pool of velvet wet red quickly drying no pain, just damp, just me, running across a clorox white pillow case another pretty white thing ruined a flutter of fear enters as I remember my mothers fury I cant afford to buy new pillow cases every week little girl but the butterflies settle as I remember hands strong, sure, and brown pushing my five year old head back to slow the bleeding her hands running through a fresh relaxer there is no hardness in these black hands there is no anger in her hands there is only love, there is only me they tell the story her mouth will not allow.

Where does the red come from? Fast When your body betrays you and the sun takes interest in your lilac skin. Guiding big mens eyes that scratch through baby fat leaving scars that resemble grown women. No sweater thick enough. Body bounces with each footfall. Each stare, more painful than the last. Pupils cut like whiplash.

Her mind, acres away. They They catch every caterpillar stutter step, every butterfly sway. They They cannot help but call her woman call her fast. They cannot help but call her grown. Every name except her own. oceans in their own rights bubbling beneath choking death back dancing into distance they cannot escape. mere tributaries, dependent on a temperamental tide land and sea converge where fault lines, make threats as they fade they are not pulled under, not buried beneath an unforgiving beach they are bruised, but breathing submerged only in themselves, each other. nebula god placed one thousand galaxies between your two front teeth, breathe, exhale and ignite this city. you, are a living memory of play fights and fleeting moonlight. of journeys north, then south as each fluorescent footfall fostered flowers, filled forests. here, unwrap a sandbox world, unprepared for your size, for your dimpled brown thighs your pull with the sunrise. smile, and spray a love written in permanence across three counties. dance, raising clammy hands, mahogany body spilling divine from distressed shorts and tops you cropped. body yours, yours, yours sweat yours voice yours name yours. you, a euphoric fog a real black night sky. you, too much for small petty places you, hard to pronounce etched lightly into door jambs and handles when and where you enter. you, making them work, for your gaze. you, galaxy girl you, crochet braids swinging you, muddy middle fingers at the ready. you, a firestorm of laughter, you are the now, the then, the hereafter. you, a firestorm of laughter, you are the now, the then, the hereafter.