her design
Her dark hand resting on the glass
as she peers into a world
designed for no one like her
Skin as dark as the black night
that wiggles underneath the Manhattan Bridge—
plummeted into the East River—
Her exterior dark like the black river
that dances underneath this B train
Through the darkness is a place
where dreams remain, moving around
I wonder how many times has it been that she's
been sent to war with her skin
How many words and hands
have left her with aching to mend?
How many men?
How many times did she not know
what to say when..
You know, when..
Afraid that she'd put her brothers'
lives in the hands of the ones who'd love to kill them
How much has she suppressed
to maintain someone else's rest?
What does she see when peering
into the daylight, feet grounded into the train's floor
as it skids across this bridge—
—night just about to fall
night just about to crack wide open
and plummet into the river, the way it does
palm longing to touch the sky,
kept by the glass window
"Do not lean on door"
What is her story?
Who's been in it?
Who's taken it and flipped it around
because they knew that they could?
Knowing that she just wanted to be loved
Where is he now?
Where are they now?
Do they have families?
Does she?
Does she always sit alone?
What is her story?
You see, my girls have stories too
My girls peer out of these windows too,
eyes hovering over buildings and rooftops and skies
thinking of things unspoken, I can see
So, I can tell she's been a little girl
with dreams as big as this world before, too
You see, my girls have told me about the men
who feel their asses on the way
leaving them with nothing to say
They've only showed to work to get their money
not to be objectified or made to be a joke
and certainly not for discomfort
Every corner, every block, every building
and behind every door
there is a man ready to try to steal
How does a black women not take this personal?
How much has she internalized?
How much does she have to live with?
How does it feel?
How does she feel?
Where is her mother?
Where is her father?
How old is she now?
Does it matter?
How much of her childhood feels as real
as something that has just happened?
How many people are long gone,
but with her every waking moment?
How many cousins?
As she looks into the sky and into whatever she sees
What is on her mind?
What is playing?
Is it this design?
Is it time?
Moments fostered, with no intention
of taking in replays that could have been lost forever
Something in her just wouldn't let them go away
If only she could walk through the glass
and into the daylight sky
not to fall into the river beneath her feet,
but to walk straight into her daydream
her very own design