And so I think one of the things that I'm
hoping to do with this manuscript
and with anything is to try to like--
I feel all kinds of ways about like poetry, and theory,
and stuff, when it comes to Black folks,
but I think that it can be really easy as a young artist
to get pushed into a place where you're
writing stuff that is Black suffering done artfully,
or unreality of Black people that is also done beautifully.
And I want to with all my work try
to reflect the full dimension of my life, both
the real struggles and being locked up,
but also knowing that there's a way out
and trying to find some kind of way out.
And so, I'm trying to move into that, so--
"Ain't No Love in the Heart of the City".
The city is like history, true but not honest, never peaceful.
It ironed the fight into my veins,
creased my palms into a fist, branded me a fire
and begged for my caution.
Said staying, like it didn't know fire either moves or dies.
My restlessness is a survival trait I inherited or learned.
I wonder which it is from our rage.
I just wish we needed warriors, Lord.
For I would burn the fields for a calm.
Some surrender, not ours.
Some funeral, not ours.
Wild how I've been taught, cut, bleed, and cauterized.
Make my body weapon, make my body keloid, dying to be loved.
Killing for some tenderness mama couldn't promise because mama
can't promise revolution, can't promise love
in the city with its evicting gaze and arresting touch.
So we pray and prepare, curl our hands
around backpacks, bill folds, pill bottles, pistol grips,
each other's grip, grip everything, weapon or remedy.
This was my first lesson.
So when my niece pulls my palm to her cheek,
giggles and kisses my skin calloused like history,
I wonder what she thinks.
Weapon or remedy?
She asks me to hold her up, spin her like a princess
while she hums a song she's just made up.
My niece asked me to hold her, sure
this is what my hands are for.
In this small and dizzying revolution, in my living room,
in the city.