Articles Available Online

(this) black girl as shadow-boxer   Born soft, bulging, with sympathy & all manner of fruitful & barren laws, you cannot help but burst into prayer Always, till you wander into that invisible second of ecstasy, sweet communion with self   In silent moments, your little black girl smiles from inside you She smiles a Sunday morning, slept in on – a small sacrifice for the better of others She’s your reflection – a mirror from which you’re always backing away She stares at you long –   watches you wear pretend-earnest Pray that you pray for her joy, her days of abundance, of expansion Teach her to pray with precision for there are likely to be days when your breasts will search for ripeness   but black rot will come easier touch yourself – again & yet again till you wander into that hour of ecstasy, sweet communion with self, begging you to fulfil a wish, to no longer erase yourself       Small Inheritances   Your amai once was a girl too, adolescent, a curious young being, with skin like salted caramel, & a mouth full of salt, lemon, all things unsweet, your amai was once a girl too Who, like you, knew how to squander a full night’s sleep on fantasy, to swap it for full days of broad, deep slumber through heartbreak, through the last sliver of dim light, falling through the blinds soon after sunset She would tell you how hairless your head was, stuck between her thighs for hours How the midwife told her swallow, breathe,                  before asking if her father’s sisters hadn’t taught her that real, strong women birthed in silence, tongues tucked behind gritted teeth On days she used belts, switches & extension cords for broken cups, curfew slips, & other small things You cried for her, mostly for yourself You could never tell if it was that you looked like your father or because birthing you almost killed her     On Legalising MaryJane   You remember your grandfather’s imprecise smile Teeth a yellowing white like the sun’s glare at high noon; lips almost black like night on a full moon Mornings were spent tending to his fields before meeting afternoon, under the shade of the msasa, armed with a worn leather-bound bible; old newspapers &, a worn leather pouch Your assigned role: grab a piece of lit firewood from the kitchen hut for him to light what you thought to be newspaper-rolled cigarettes You remember your grandfather’s eyes; they had clouds