The List


Willfully forgotten,

lurking,

deep beneath layers of onyx

epidermis,

ivory smiles and mahogany

laughs. Eyebrows raised, voice deep, sure and 

rhythmic like molasses making its way

to the end of the jar,

never fearing the splat

of it’s collision against its

next 

destination.

These contents of my memoirs function

as the foundation of liberations yet to be

grasped but yet constricted by the trauma of the story it’s self

care

love

preservation

that causes me to see and unsee the list.

The cell.

The hunger.

sThe disease.

The white supremacist

infused

too black 2b

queer

body marked as unholy. Hell was a sure thing

because white jesus never made mention

of a black heaven and where black is unseen

white reigns supreme.

The cell.

The hunger.

The disease.

Onyx skin,

Queer cocks and tails,

A nigga’s disposition and

marinated, understated

black rage made for a cocktail lethal for

any one body to hold like a cell with

nuclear capabilities. One tripped wire

would trigger markings of terrorism

or salvation

but the list

i can’t speak it.

I’ve become an expert in swallowing seeds of circumcision

of black death

of queer viruses

of poverties roots

but i’m too much of a nigga scrounge my face

and vomit up even poison

lest the company see me 

weak and read

my

list.

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