Grand-mama’s Laughter

abstract thoughts


unsure of how to hold 

trace of skin hanging

pink meat on white bones

black faces


thirsty for knowledge

we spin in circle

a heart beat

in the dead beat city

the graves of our ancestors

chased ,

we jumped

higher, harder


believing  agency was a word we inherited

inked in our skin

forgetting to look back to cords

 noose tied to the house

us the foundation


we jumped high

longing for the feeling of the quiet rumble,

the sounds after the tornado has taken

our eyes

to notice

the hot air sipping

 sewn lips, bony hands grinding to dust a future

half- awake

from her hollowed belly 

Higher and Harder

we jumped into the rumble

for a taste

of her voice


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