When we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
but when we are silent
we are still afraid
So it is better to speak
we were never meant to survive.
— Audre Lorde
Apologies for the lack of updates. I am currently in Seattle, WA for AWP. Updates will continue when I return to NYC next week. If you’re at AWP and you’d like to meet up, chat about the craft, or grab a drink, message me!
When you slipped out of me, I was altered. I became Mother Mary kissed brown by a Mississippi sun. A daughter of the Delta, Holy Mother of one. I watched you sleep on your back. When you woke, your eyes soaked up the world. At my breast, I nursed you from tiny something into little man then Summer swallowed you, gulping you down with the Tallahatchie. You were fed to her by men brimming with something darker than hate. Little man, they say you made eyes at the grocer’s daughter, that you threatened to shatter her with your black. An officer told me your eyes were like a dog’s in heat, starved, so they were taken. Extracting the left and right from their orbits, they made a mess of you in the woods.
Were you still breathing when they dragged you to the river and baptized you in blood? Wearing Christ’s crown around your neck, you were anchored to the Tallahatchie with a cotton gin. You slept in that river for three days then returned to me and in the wake of your passing your apostles have spread the gospel in your holy name.
I am Mamie, Holy Mother. I praise the glory of your slumber and await the resurrection of the body you left behind, the body that now bears witness in your best suit, in a box of pine.
I’ve got a testimony, Little Man. Hallowed be your name.