If we are magic
then we must be made from the madness of ashes
left to ruin each other in dark patches of the ghetto.
We settle on hot blocks with sorcerer cold bones and know Sometimes you need a spell like you need a prayer to resurrect hope. Black women like black witches holding what’s left of our people
to our chest, we breathe air to manifest a remedy for healing. Healing is not supernatural but convince a black woman she
is unworthy of its touch and she will surely call it an illusion. Call it slight of hand.
That we reach into the dirt and pull up a lineage of power. This burial be the only ceremony where our loved ones come back.
Brown skin spin me in black woman’s limbs to dance
a smile back onto a generation of long faces and
wrong places and racist whose gravest mistake was
thinking black woman ain’t got an army of witches
under a religion of cocoa butter, box braids, and Sunday's
with that pastor who always seems to have the holy ghost.
Don’t be surprised that most of us know ghost.
We know tricks that turn brown boys looking for treats
into martyrs on white tees. Just because pages are torn
from our generation doesn’t mean their magic can’t be
reborn in the belly of my first love.
First, I must love. See unwritten forgiveness
in the brown oak eyes of her sunny disposition. Let her
hands intertwined with mine combine every combination
of earth tones to the frequency of our history. Call forth
every shade of our ancestors when she says my name. Beg
her to say it again and again and again because no matter
how many times she says it, there will always be people
who don’t believe in our magic. The ceremony of this love
is a picnic underneath a tree, where our dreams are the only
thing hanging above us. Maybe we’ll be sipping tea or
playing with leaves or just being happy. Either way I know
she’ll make me happy. I know black woman love with
every bone in her body so when I hold her body to my chest
I know how much breath is given to women without tongues,
women who’ve been wronged and robbed of the right to their
bodies. We have the right to our bodies, our stories, our magic
is the darkest art in the universe
we have been outlawed since before laws saw us human, so why
should we be surprised that eyes demonize a black woman loving
another black woman. This, is just how I spell forgiveness to myself,
how I resurrect every limb that has been made phantom, I want to give
her my limbs to kiss because only black women know the parts of
ourselves that have been without warmth but know the fire of sin.
I love her again and again because if care is a ritual then I want to
practice on her, practice on me, practice letting love be alchemy.