do you see the red line in the trees

the hint of falling

do you hear a future calling

when you watch me sleep

the hint of falling

into place

when you watch me sleep

you wonder what of this is dream

get in place

take the picture

you wonder what of this is dream

and what is memory

take the picture

come arrange yourselves

you memorized

what sisters do

come arrange yourselves

to hear the future calling

do what sisters do

you, see?

the red line

in the trees

(This is another poem for my mama and her sister-friends from college. The first photo is the one in the photo album my mother gave me full of photos at the celebration after my christening. It is clearly a few moments before the second photo, which my Auntie Veronica —pictured here with the beautiful cornrows— sent to me recently. Everyone is in formation and smiling in the second photo, the intended result. But I am grateful to also have the first photo, a vision of Black women, chosen sisters, in the process of arranging themselves in relationship to each other. As Audre Lorde teaches us, it may be natural for Black women to love their sisters, other Black women, but in a society that teaches hatred of everything dark and feminine it is also a practice, an intention, a labor-of-love improvisation. Or as Toni Cade Bambara teaches us, via Aishah Shahidah Simmons “sister is a verb.” Yes, something to be studied and celebrated, never to be taken for granted. These sisters are still holding each other, even though two have taken to the sky. I have been observing this miracle whole life and am still internalizing the choreography, improvising across distance and death. The poem questions what is the background and what is the foreground, what is the memory and what is the dream. Most of all I am grateful to be held in the divine light of sistering past, present and future. So this poem is also for you, studying now how to relate, not by default but through intention. What is in the background, what is in the foreground for you now?)

as if i could stand in your arms

white dress longer than my legs will be

marrying me to god

my arm becomes a part of your arm

long white dress of Christian naming

you look at me

my reach becomes a part of your armament

i look somewhere beyond you

you look at me

as if i might tell you something

i look somewhere beyond

as if i hear a voice

and i might tell you something

about miracles and time

another voice will speak to you

through me

in the miracle of time

i will stand one day even taller

through you

through me

through us

you meet again the infinite

(This poem is for my dear Aunt Carol, the epicenter of joy in our family. Aunt Carol fills our lives with laughter and care. It is impossible to spend more than a moment in her presence and not know what it is to be profoundly loved. Aunt Carol you have taught me what it means to live with an abundant heart, and that home is something we make by sharing love. There is a brilliance to that rivaling the brilliance you brought to your career that has shaped our family for the better. In fact before I had the language for it, you were my touchstone. Looking back I see many friendships and mentorships that I nurtured in my life because intuitively I saw an aspect of you, felt an aspect of what I feel when I am with you: safe, seen, held, loved, happy. And this picture may have been one of the first times that I got to internalize that knowing. This poem comes not exactly from that knowing, but from a question that I see in this picture, a wonder. For me this picture, after a traditional christening ceremony, approaches the infinite. There is something beyond what we see here. And it is that beyond that I offer you today Aunt Carol as you engage the mysteries of this phase of your life in a new community, after retirement, with new generations and meanings of family to bless. I want you to know how your love has become my theology, a generous approach to infinity as we find it in each other. I love you always Aunt Carol. And for everyone who is contemplating the beyond, beyond this moment, beyond even life itself, may you remember what you know of love, and who taught you.)

listen uncle

the plant

above your head

knows you better

than your hair do

and though i am small

in your hands

your hands know

each other

better than your mouth

knows what

to say

and mama

the gold you wear

is delicate

and light

it cannot break you

you will break

through it

and

i love you beyond the strength of your hands

i love you more than the glint of your rings

i love you beyond what i can see in blurry daylight

i love you more than anything

and i remember

(I love that in this picture I look like I am making a considered response to something my Uncle Duane is saying. What would that be? The poem imagines it. Ultimately everything becomes I love you. And I am still held in the loose prayer of my uncle’s hands and my mama’s hands in this photo. May we consider our words at this time. May they all be words of love. May we remember that we are all babies, new to this moment without the language to truly hold it. May we remember what this baby knew, we can’t live without each other. Love to each of you and all of us. )

from Boda who survived the middle passage

look

the white dress is a signal

i am back to love you and to breathe

this time the depth is fabric

you will not drown

i am back to love you and to breathe

secrets into your infant ears

you will not drown

this rebirth is for everyone

stories in your infant ears

about whale kin and coral bone

rebirth for everyone

i am home

with your whale skin and coral poems

breath flowing long remember

i am home

a place where we survive

breath flowing long girl, train

this time. depth. fabric.

a place where we survive

take the white dress

as a sign

(Ancestral mother Boda, known in our family’s oral history as an Ashanti woman who survived the middle passage and was enslaved in Anguilla has been coming to me in dreams of wedding dresses for more than 5 years. A signal tapping in to my association of “boda” with the word wedding in spanish. The language of our first captors in the Caribbean. But I recently learned thanks to Katherine Agyemaa Agard that in twi “bota” is is the name of a yellow species of coral. This time I am in the white dress, sewn by my grandmother Lydia, long and layered oceans of fabric. The train of this dress, which my mother playfully holds up, is part of my oceanic training. This is poem is for those of us seeking a sign. And for all of us who need a reminder of what we been training for.)

yetunde returns to touch the cheek of her great great granddaughter

i will need the power in my legs

when i return to earth

i will smile and remember

i am free

when i return to earth

i will see the love i made

unshackled

and remind you

i will see the love i made

from the inside out

i will remind you who you are

i will be the best love possible

from the inside out

i will grow this life

i will be the best love possible

i made it

i will grow this life

i will smile and remember

i made it

with these free fat legs and fists

(This poem is in the voice of my Nana’s great great grandmother. We don’t know her name. Yetunde means “ancestor returned” in Yoruba. So this poem is about what that ancestor, who lived in Jamaica at the time of enslavement would say to her great great grandchild (my Nana) if she came back in the form of a grandchild (me!) The multiple directions of mothering, the embodied memories of freedom, the reflection and the time travel. All of it. This is how we reach each other across seven generations and answer for the world we have left, the world we have made. Remember how free you are.)

three chosen sisters smile

in the foreground

in the background

awning. trees.

in the foreground

their smiles are what they can stand on

gaping branches

undetermined fruit

their smiles are what they can stand on

their arms around each other

everything is possible

they are yet holding and held

their arms around each other

they make a bright study of brown

they are yet holding held

and still alive

they make a bright study of brown

three

chosen 

sisters 

smiling

still

alive

in the back 

ground

(This poem is for three of my brilliant beautiful Aunties. Aunt Andie, Aunt Carol and Aunt Mary are three of my mama’s closest sister-friend from college. Aunt Mary is actually the person who introduced my parents to each other while she was in law school with my dad. There are a lot of meanings of “brown” in this poem. A supreme court decision. My Aunties, Andria Hall—noted writer and journalist, Carol Black-Lemon—award-winning visual artist and Mary Butler—accomplished lawyer are brilliant Black women born in the 1950s who achieved their dreams with greater access than their parents to educational opportunities and support. The ground of my existence. These three women are part of the foundation of my life as a person with the benefit of always being surrounded by Black women who gracefully lived into their creative, intellectual and professional talents. The ground itself. Both my Aunt Andie and my Aunt Mary are ancestors now and the pantoum form I use here falls apart as I witness the joy and possibility of these three young women against a background that also includes death and my longing for their presence. So this poem is also for anyone holding both grief and gratitude for the folks who have made our lives possible.)

i cross my arms

your shadowed eyes

your skin your teeth

and i arise

your shadowed eyes

look down at me

and i arise

but sleepily

look down at me

and find my face

but sleepily

i cradle grace

i cradle grace

you cradle me

and find my face

delightful

you cradle me

and skin your teeth

the light

reaches across

(This pantoum is for my Nana who is the secret star of this christening photo album. She is in so many of the pictures. Even in pictures I thought she wasn’t in I find her earring, one eye, a wisp of hair. She is also the only person other than me who has a complete costume change somewhere in the midst of the day. This poem is a celebration of what it is to be held and smiled upon. I am. We are. Like my ongoing conversations with my Nana this poem also plays with a poetic relationship between Jamaican and American englishes. I love you Nana Nana. Always.)

communion with the earth offers no gloves

the father of the mother knows his place

study the man and notice what he does

outside the light of any smiling face

he clarifies his three piece suit to two

leaving the jacket sitting on a chair

and walks through grass in fine Italian shoes

investigates the fruit trees that yet bear

and places golden apples (i count eight)

into the background of the celebration

the rustic ceremony of his fate

born in an orchard in another nation

and thus the child is blessed beyond her knowing

the weight of golden orbs already growing

(This sonnet is for my Grandpa Joe. Grandpa Joe is a shadowy figure in my memory. A quiet person who spoke in proverbs. A person who, even when he was present, wasn’t necessarily social. It makes sense then, that I learn more about my Grandpa Joe studying the background of pictures of other people the day of my christening than I do from the picture of us together, his face obscured by the shadows of the trees. It turns out, that while other people were posing and smiling, my maternal grandfather, born on a citrus farm in rural Jamaica, performed his own ceremony: harvesting fruit from the wild apple trees in the yard. In this poem I imagine that moment, the ancestral presence he made space for by turning to a practice that may have felt more resonant for him than standing and talking with people. And for all the tiny ceremonies that we do or do not notice. And for all the necessary work happening right now that sustains me, though it may be in the background almost beyond recognition. I see you. I love you. I thank you.)

the love within him infinite and free

my uncle ties his tie and suits his suit

godfather though the sharp young man may be

his life had not yet borne religious fruit

one day he will stand up and lead a church

heart big enough to hold a million souls

but now he is still leaning in the lurch

he’s barely more than twenty-five years old

did he decide on this bright sacred day

to make a wry commitment though divine

to practice play as love and love as play

both god and father claimed and redefined

yet who can tell the meaning of his smirk

all I know is I’m grateful and it worked

(This sonnet is for my Uncle Duane. Daddy’s younger brother, and cherished confidante and my beloved wise and playful godfather. The one who used to get me in trouble in church on Sunday morning making funny faces and then quickly shifting back into a serious mode. Other people in the congregation must have imagined I was laughing in the face of God. Uncle Duane, you have always been there for me and for my Dad and for our family. I could not ask for a more loving, honest, joyful and compassionate godfather. It seems to come naturally to you. But studying your face in these after-christening photos, two very different countenances, I wonder what it meant to you that day, as such a young man to take on the name of “godfather.” So this is a poem of gratitude and wonder, honoring your journey to become the person you are, exactly who I needed you to be, while still protecting the youthful playful spirit that we love! And I know that the love within you has always been divine, and open to a great purpose. Within and beyond form and structure. )

already i must clutch my own heart

and look to the sky

the door to the house is open

behind us

and look to the sky

remembering what is

behind us

a dream i am writing you into

remembering what is

before all of this

a dream i am writing you into

with my eyes

before all of this

you traveled the ocean

with my eyes

and by hand you made family

you traveled the ocean

the door to the house is open

you made family already

by hand

my hands clutch at my heart

(This poem is really for my Nana, Joyce McKenzie who is—always—in the process of telling me her life story, but now I am recording and transcribing it. One of the beautiful things about Nana’s life is that she made it by hand. She created family by choice and care and need as an orphaned child who didn’t have access to safety or home in Jamaica after her grandmother passed away. My Aunt Bunny and my Aunt Jenny, pictured here are two of the many people who became her family through the process of migrating together and keeping each other alive. They became kindred in and across the ocean. My grandmother’s migration story has profoundly shaped my life and our family and I also dedicate this poem to all those who are loving each other across oceans and other borders and for those who have usually been able to traverse borders freely who are now learning what it means to have to do your caring long distance, not by choice, but by necessity. And what will be the evidence one day in the future of the families we are creating and nurturing now. Of the ways we kept each other alive.)

grandma made this dress with her hands

made the baby indirect by salt and stay

pop-pop grows his beard to match

the length of grace the lace of claim

made the baby indirect by salt and stay

made the brown in sun and softness over days

the length of grace the lace of claim

the strange perpetuation of a name

made the brown in sun and softness over days

to come to borrow and believe in both

the strange perpetuation of a name

that doesn’t claim them either

to come to borrow and believe in both

the breathing and the thickness of the blood

the wild unclaimed

tenacity of sand

the breathing and the thickness of the blood

pop-pop grows his beard into

tenacity of sand

grandma made this dress with both her hands

(This poem is for my paternal grandparents and yet it is also against normative ideas about paternity. My grandmother designed and made this christening gown for me and it has also been worn by my sister, by cousins, and other babies in our family. As a grown queer rebel who now knows more about my paternal grandparents fathers and their harm, and also the limits of patriarchy that left my grandfather unclaimed even though he used and passed on the name of his father, I focus on the gown as a handmade claim. Another way of holding. And look at my grandmothers hands. Yes. They have made worlds. So this is for Lydia and Jeremiah. And also for you, relearning how to make the world by hand right now. For all of you discovering which claims are in name only and which ones come with care, that can actually clothe you, shelter you, hold you in this moment. With love and tenacity.)

if your sleeve were the ocean carrying me to sleep

would i dream myself your smile

if the waves of fabric woke me

i would be dressed in love

would i dream myself your smile

your beard the cleansing cloud above me

would i be dressed in love

your raining joy

your beard the cleansing cloud above me

your smile the source of poems

your raining joy

the soon and coming words

your smile the source of poems

your face the welcoming earth

the soon and coming words

my head upon your shoulder

your face the welcoming earth

the waves of fabric waking

i float upon your shoulders

ocean carry me to sleep

and never leave

(This poem is for the sweet trinity of my godmother Auntie Jennifer, my father’s godmother Cousin Floss and my Pop-pop and the renewing resource of their smiles. For me this picture is evidence to dismantle my internalized capitalism, the individualist mythology that life is a struggle and I am in it by myself. But look. I am held and supported, not by one, but by many. Not only by the living but also by those who lived before. Not only within the nuclear model of family, but within chosen and extended networks of care. Looking at the photo today I notice that the trinity of adoration and care holding me in this picture are wearing red, white and blue, like that opening scene of Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon. And actually all three of these angels in my life chose to leave the United States and lived in other jurisdictions for most of my life. I accept the necessary reminder in this moment that though this country does not support life in general and also does not support my life or the lives of those I love in particular, that reality cannot override the fact that the universe does and has and will support us through each other. I love you. I gotta let myself be the baby in this picture, held, supported loved. I want to invite you to be the baby in this picture. Rest. You are loved.)

thank you

for the small god of sleep

for the trickster god of dreaming

for the slow and yet resplendent god of sunrise

for the warmth

thank you

for the longing god of comfort

for the easy god of beauty

for the glamour god of style

for the altar of this outfit

thank you

for the growing god of food

for the working god of hands prepared

for the moving god of transport and of share

for the nourishment i find

thank you

for the waiting god of work

for the coy goddess of poetry

for the ample god of purpose

for this labored life of love

thank you

for the sweetest god of song

for the heartbeat god of rhythm

for the sweating god of dance

for this body

thank you

for the changing god of every face

for the sometimes god of smiling

for the pulling god of need

for my community

thank you

for the slick god of reflection

for the plodding god of duty

for the craving god of kinship

for my family

thank you

for the purple god of sunset

for the cooling god of evening

for the blinged out god of nightsky

for the moon

thank you

for the lingering god of light

for the soft goddess of rest

for the salt god of satisfaction

for my best

god

mother

thank you

(This poem is for my divine godmother Aunt Rashmi. We lost contact with Aunt Rashmi many years ago, so if anyone here has seen her and would like to be part of the miracle of our reconnection, my mama and I are so open to that miracle. My memories of Aunt Rashmi are vague, but I have a birthday card from her on my first birthday where she wrote the words “God Bless You.” This poem honors all the ways that I fully receive that blessing in its many forms. And this is for all of us who are remembering exactly what we are grateful for right now.)

we could be singing

a duet in a forgotten language

i look into your open mouth

and know

a duet in a forgotten language

remembered ancestral face

i know you

i have known you before

remembered ancestral face

tell me how i got here

i have known you before

what are the passkeys to this time

tell me how i got here

and who brought you

what are the passkeys to this time

what is this place

and who brought you

this open mouth

what is this place

come let us sing it

into life

(This poem is for my fabulous Aunt Lorraine, my grandmother’s sister, lover of all beautiful things and laughter, lifetime member of the NAACP and YWCA. Can you see her halo? Thank you Aunt Lorraine for teaching me to dance by living your life as an opening for joy. This is for everyone who is looking for the song right now, learning how to harmonize across distance and lifetimes. Love teaches us the frequency we need. )

only one of us has teeth

but you could say

we see the same world

looking forward

and you could say

our fates are intertwined

forward facing

and bright

our fates are intertwined

your hair is cornrowed

and bright

with gold

your hair is braided

and mine is wispy

with gold

with bright and waking thoughts

my mind is one with thee

with teeth of us

with bright and waking thoughts

see? the same world.

(This poem is for my sweet Auntie Veronica and our alignment of spirit which is already evident in these pictures. Aunt Veronica your hopeful loving energy is exactly what I am inviting into my life right now. And always. Thank you for holding a place in your heart for me as pure potential, as bright and possible love. And I also dedicate this to everyone who is reaching to be their best selves at this time of change and adaptation. Remember? This is what it feels like.)

i was sleeping while you were smiling

i was fat and you were thin and young

we were brown and the sun knew us gently

my ribbon matched your dress

i was fat and you were thin and young

you would be yet thin and young still when you died

my ribbon matched your dress

my hands your hands

yes you will be yet thin and young and gone

when i become the age that you are here

my hands your hands

i would take on the art

when i become the age that you are here

i write and think that means that i can live

i’m taking on the art

you left behind

i write and does it mean that you yet live

brown and gentle in the rising sun

you left us, sleeping

are you smiling now?

(This is dedicated to my beloved godmother Aunt Andie, also known as the great author, journalist and woman of profound faith Andria Hall. She also made the most amazing Sunday breakfasts in the universe. I know that right now she would be making space for compassion and divine love with every word. I also know she is smiling upon the beautiful joyful lives of her children and family. Thank you Aunt Andie. Your life taught me that “angel” was not an idea or a metaphor. Angel is a way of being. The way you be. Eternal love.)

*if you know you know. shout out to Natasha Tretheway.

for soprano, mezzo-soprano or alto voice

am i the one

who looks most like you

in the world?

who looks most like you

eyes or hands

mouth or song?

in this whole world

is there one

as yours as me?

i am the one

who holds your song

inside my skin.

(This love song to all of my ancestors is inspired by this picture of me twinning with my dear Aunt Una, the great opera singer. Right now my aunt and my other relatives in Anguilla are dealing with a complete shut down of an economy seduced and betrayed by tourism. Their food supply, almost entirely imported is a major question. Aunt Una’s voice could break windows, has opened doors. And sometimes she will face the ocean and sing. )

the difference between a yawn and a smile

the small muscles

near the cheekbone

the jaw in its depth

not width

near the cheekbone

there is a yes

not width

a knowing

there is a yes

you have to reach for it

a knowing

stretching your baby face

you have to reach for it

the love you need

stretching your baby face

and grown heart

the love you need

the jaw in its depth

this growing heart

the smallest muscle

(This is dedicated to everyone who is relearning their face after days of not seeing or smiling at strangers in passing. This is dedicated to us, the ones relearning movement in smaller spaces. This is for us, navigating the difference between restlessness and rest. And of course this is dedicated to three of my gorgeous godmothers, three of the sisters my mother chose. Aunt Cecilia, Aunt Rashmi and Auntie Jenny. Divine. And dreamy.)

nana touches the back of my father

the hem of my garment

looks out of the frame

blood red nails

the hem of my garment

white lace stitched by love

at home red fingertips

as well

white lace stitched by love

like this is a wedding

as well

something someone gives me away

like this is a wedding

but my father is holding

something someone give me a way

to hold onto him now

but my father is held

now out of the frame

and yet I hold him here

touch back

(I dedicate this to all of us with the impulse to hold and be held by people who we cannot hold or be held by right now, for reasons of social distance or spiritual plane. I dedicate this to my father who I just wish I could hug, it’s a daily wish and a daily heartbreak. I dedicate this to my Nana who is living, but far away and also who it would not be epidemiologically wise for me to hug at this time. Even this christening gown made by my other grandmother the great designer exists somewhere where we can’t touch it. Towards our transformed relationship to touch. And not taking touch for granted ever. Again.)

at last the people face each other
in the open mouth of a child
greet each other gently
curious about the world to come

in the open mouth of a child
the people find not teeth but questions
curious about the world to come
they raise the high pitch of their voices

the people find not teeth but questions
they make not weapons but water
they raise the pitch of their own voices
to meet the hope they suddenly remember

they make not weapons but water
with their skin and with their eyes
they meet the sudden hope
with salt and fresh renewal

with their skin and with their eyes
the people greet each other gently
with salt and fresh renewal
at last the people face each other

(Part of my curriculum of homeschooling my inner child and balancing this social distance is returning to images of my first social event. My first official ceremony. The ceremony of godparents. A memory of being held. Some of these folks are far away, like my Mama across an ocean now. Some, like my Pop-pop, Aunt Mary -who is holding me here-and Aunt Andie-right next to my mom-are ancestors now.)

Are you homeschooling your inner child? Adapting through rebirth? Finding a ceremony here?