In These Black Hands

by Salisa Lynne Grant

  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 De’Lon, “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 Janette’s personal and professional support has been a light that will not dim. These people are proof of God’s love for me. The ability to know God’s 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 1

  she has always been all teeth 3

  In These Black Hands 4

  Fast5

  Providences7

  nebula 8

  32310

  Covered 12

  In the Night for Stokely Carmichael/Kwame Ture 13

  Dreams for Sister15

  a too white moon17

  Wrestling Our Symphonies 18

  Tenderheaded 23

  three feet25

  Open Promise 27

  she called in her soul 28

  Part II

  Black Lovings

  Myles II 31

  Storage 32

  Equilibrium34

  quiet story for Gene 35

  Five Little Girls for Black Girls who cry in the Night 37

  Make Believe 39

  We Let Wonder Take Us 41

  Before you stop loving 43

  My People44

  Myles III/Still Black 45

  Pull46

  Brown boy47

  Night Surrounds Us 48

  We On49

  An Answered Prayer 51

  Instead We Roam52

  Black Lovings 53

  Sunflower Monday55

  How dare we laugh? 56

  Together57

  4 Hours in a Missouri Street for Michael Brown 58

  Untitled59

  Her Body, a Museum 62

  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

  everybody’s drums. her smiles

  slowly became forced.

  “smile young lady, lemme see those teeth.”

  eyes became weary. 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 mother’s memories.

  i remember the moment i decided i wasn’t

  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 mother’s fury

  I can’t 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 men’s 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.

  Providences

  surrounded, protected

  water on all three sides

  three coasts three

  faces

  shattered in laughter.

  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.

  323

  A yellow miracle made from

  paint, glass, and plaster.

  Home for seven years or so.

  We moved every year before

  and every year after.

  The walls had the chance to

  turn beige with stories, the

  floors creaked with puberty, prayers, and

  patience.

  We grew out of our bedrooms,

  legs wouldn’t fit any

  longer.

  Carpet knew too much and

  backdoor was always slamming.

  Telling the neighborhood our

  best secrets.

  In-home laundry room, built-in

  spice racks.

  A place to rest withered backs.

  Even a hill for sledding.

  Even a hill for sledding.

  Covered

  The floor sags under the weight.

  One hundred years of memories

  tied to my waist.

  Forces me down, demands my

  attention, compliance.

  There is no point in resisting the pull.

  Eyes forced open, mind override.

  I cannot escape my grandfather’s

  grimace, my great grandmother’s worry is worn around my neck,

  I can still hear, the ring of my aunties’ laughter.

  Swimming in it, legs swinging, heavy with

  knowing.

  Each time I try to give up, to

  submerge myself in ourtheir past,

  theirmy arms push me upthrough.

  There will be no drowning today.

  Ok.

  I will float on. Watching my body

  disappear

  reappear.

  Covered in their lives.

  In the Night

  for Stokely Carmichael/Kwame Ture

  You are the sweetest darkness.

  A sweeping glow of sugar barely

  kissing reality.

  I cannot see you in the night

  but I hear your wings as they

  cry for release.

  You are seven broken

  waters, two fallen angels feathers bent,

  one wrist that no longer bleeds.

  You are a forgotten heart

  beat, fighting to be heard over the

  screaming, crying of life's let downs.

  You speak, letting us know that we are still here,

  you take our lips in your palm

  and massage our every syllable.

  You give us back the words that

  set us, free, you

  love us on principle, no charge no cost.

  No receipt.

  With all the chest of a King and the

  fire of a Knight, you.

  You, man of no armor no fear,

  you, endless syllable of love

  and

  insistence,

  You are the only poem

  that makes us sing.

  Sing sing sing.

  Dreams for Sister

  Last night I dreamt

  of your engagement.

  Of a love for you so powerful,

  it swept you and

  your pain away for awhile.

  Surrounded you

  and pulled you close.

  Every smile you have

  ever longed for

  floated to your face.

  A thousand gentle stares

  were placed in

  your palms.

  In that moment you

  were free.

  You did not need

  to be strong, no

  one snatched the luminescence from within

  you.

  I stood back but near, where

  only you could see me. Where only your light

  would reach.

  I waited, until your moment paused and

  you began to look for me.

  I waited, until you were ready to

  share it.

  I did my best.

  Your eyes found mine

  and there was only an avalanche of love.

  Only friendship.

  Only the indigo rhapsody of

  our childhood.

  Sisters who God fastened firmly

  to one another.

  For better or for worse.

  I awoke, alive and ablaze.

  Plotting for your joy.

  a too white moon

  That sounds so divine.

  Your eyes on me,

  soft.

  Hands too, eventually.

  The smell of you resting in

  my nose.

 
Pretend forever, we are pretending

  forever.

  Your pretty smile, a too white

  moon against a dark sky. I am

  ticking. Like my mother showed

  me how to do.

  Ready to bury you in my

  rubble.

  I am not angry.

  There is no fire here.

  When I explode,

  you’ll know it.

  I could never be divine, I am

  all flesh and muscle, I am

  nobody’s God but

  I know how to grow.

  I can sit still and braid an

  army, a movement, a nation.

  Wrestling Our Symphonies

  I.

  Tonight there is no one

  but

  the memory of your shoulders,

  broad as the base of Mt. Hood

  strong as the spirits that forced me west.

  I remember your song, it still rings in my bones,

  moves between me in damp Oregon evenings.

  How many nights did we mix spirits without blending bodies?—

  I remember the sweetness of your sorrow.

  Your smells of patience and forgiveness

  still linger in my laughter.

  Your steadiness is here too,