WEBVTT

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And so I think one of
the things that I'm

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hoping to do with
this manuscript

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and with anything
is to try to like--

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I feel all kinds of ways
about like poetry, and theory,

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and stuff, when it
comes to Black folks,

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but I think that it can be
really easy as a young artist

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to get pushed into
a place where you're

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writing stuff that is Black
suffering done artfully,

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or unreality of Black people
that is also done beautifully.

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And I want to with
all my work try

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to reflect the full
dimension of my life, both

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the real struggles
and being locked up,

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but also knowing that
there's a way out

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and trying to find
some kind of way out.

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And so, I'm trying to
move into that, so--

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"Ain't No Love in the
Heart of the City".

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The city is like history, true
but not honest, never peaceful.

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It ironed the fight
into my veins,

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creased my palms into a
fist, branded me a fire

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and begged for my caution.

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Said staying, like it didn't
know fire either moves or dies.

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My restlessness is a survival
trait I inherited or learned.

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I wonder which it
is from our rage.

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I just wish we needed
warriors, Lord.

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For I would burn the
fields for a calm.

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Some surrender, not ours.

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Some funeral, not ours.

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Wild how I've been taught,
cut, bleed, and cauterized.

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Make my body weapon, make my
body keloid, dying to be loved.

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Killing for some tenderness mama
couldn't promise because mama

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can't promise revolution,
can't promise love

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in the city with its evicting
gaze and arresting touch.

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So we pray and
prepare, curl our hands

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around backpacks, bill folds,
pill bottles, pistol grips,

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each other's grip, grip
everything, weapon or remedy.

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This was my first lesson.

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So when my niece pulls
my palm to her cheek,

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giggles and kisses my skin
calloused like history,

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I wonder what she thinks.

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Weapon or remedy?

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She asks me to hold her up,
spin her like a princess

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while she hums a song
she's just made up.

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My niece asked me
to hold her, sure

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this is what my hands are for.

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In this small and dizzying
revolution, in my living room,

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in the city.

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