it is the year 2000
i imagine
my hands tucked in the crevices
of morjon’s womb
when it gets loud
i imagine i am still there
her palm held against her belly
brushing strands of my curls away
from my eyes
as she leans against the fifth flight of stairs
in the yellow brick building on granville ave
she asks for strength
and in my unborn body
I hope I lend her my hands
maybe the story is told
backwards
maybe morjon
always knew
that her eldest daughter
would learn more
from the rage
maybe she peeled her scabs
so that I could feel it too
maybe the blood runs thin
but it runs deep still
and i hold her scabs in my palms
gluing the rage back together
to give her strength
on the steps of that yellow brick building
on granville ave
Came across your publication and this poem at the perfect time, to be living each and every word of it in my own context 🫶🏼🫶🏼 I love the formatting and imagery of your words.