i treat her love
like the enemy
as a war brews inside of me
unable to see the trajectory of torments passed–
down the generation
annihilation of my very existence
denying any recompense
even before my first breath.
but an ease stirs in me still
to the degree of a till overflowed
by praying mothers here
to get their babies to see another year,
and another
and another
WHY must we be treated as an other
she demands
as the world tries to tie her hands behind her back
for being too black
for being too woman
for being too excellent at this made up game
of monopolies and trust fund babies
Her babies are gonna be archaeologists
Her babies are gonna be the next president
Her babies are flying at the speed of light
& are gonna love Her to the moon and back (!)
Her babies are gonna be sleeping softly
until she wakes them from their rest
with a gentle kiss