Dedicated to my mother, Grace Georgeanne MacKay:
I forgive you. I hope you forgive me too.
I am the 5th born – daughter of immigrants
Black, White, Spanish, Native
Raised without a father by a motherless mother who came to this country carrying the sands of Jamaica in her pocket
Mother once told me
a story of Jamaica
her Beloved
how as a youth
she climbed a coconut tree
in search of a piece of paradise
and in her pursuit, she climbed
thinking only of the soon to be realized
pleasure
cracking open the green shell
slowly sipping the sweet nectar
as the pulpy flesh of the coco
melted on her tongue
In America, she made us a home
where I spent my days
Seeking a poem to give wings to the flightless birds crowding the cage of a heart I’ve made
Trapped
In sickness, melancholia, desperation to hold on
Lupus, ever the fickle fiend, stole my heart the day she finally let go
…
Forgive me
Sometimes
I taste the sour of my mother’s sorrow on my words
.
Holidays are hard
I don’t have the ideal family for
Portraits
I lost my mother
Only to find her in empty kitchen cabinets
Hole ridden socks
Tattered comforters
There
In what’s missing
I am the island
That once belonged to a continent
Displaced by a schism
I am odd and out of place
Perfect
And perplexed
I want all of the wants
Needing everything but
Satiated
By the simple things
A good morning text
A check in call
A smile
From a stranger on the subway
As I sit here on this bed
that once birthed Nuyorican beauties
into this world
but now carries the weight of their plight
on her shoulders
I feel that she is
tired
worn out
from making love
and bearing the brunt of
broken hearted bodies
thrusting their anger into her –
wearing down her springs
and her fluff is only fluffy
in pockets
there are holes where
heads and thighs lay
imprinted into her flesh
forever
She has soaked up
my tears
more times than I would
like to remember
and only she could mute
my sobs
as she pressed gently against my face
springs
rocking with me
shaking with me
until she lulled me to sleep
She knows I love too much
stiffens up
late at night as I write
or think
or love
or breathe
her
making me uncomfortable
as if to say:
“Leave well enough alone”
But I was never one
to take too kindly
to polite suggestion.
I sit here as mage, muse, maker,
mentor for too many ideas and too little direction.
An anchorless vessel, a many branched tree, taken in every direction
stretched out towards the sun;
basking in the light in our words, its warmth enveloping me, sustaining me
Feels something like home
trapped in memories of happier times
Feeling too much, all at once
Desperate for an escape
to find the sweet spot between the 12s
Dress myself up in fancy phrases
Drown my sorrows in old fashioned ways
No need for subtitles when imbibing with spirits
I have mastered the art of supplanting sadness with stories
Weaving trauma into silken veil
The eternal plight of women who have learned to run with wolves;
Oracles perceived as emotional refuse
with a cool glass of liquid forgetting
So, if you ever walk into a bar, you’ll find me
becoming the home I so desperately need
