Celestial Navigation (6 of 29)

Seth and Ella lay in the grass staring into the sky.

“I wish I’d ever paid attention when people tried to teach me constellations,” Seth said. “I’m not even sure which dipper that is, big or little.”

Ella laughed. “I’m no better. All those field trips to the planetarium and I’ve got nothing.”

Seth almost said something cringe-worthy like, “You’ve got me,” but managed to keep it inside. He wanted to touch her, to take her hand. But there was no not-awkward way to do that, and no guarantee she’d welcome the contact. Such a mistake would be horrific any time, but he didn’t want to imagine the blow-back of taking such a misstep at a leadership retreat, surrounded by upper management from every department.

“Do kids still go on planetarium field trips, I wonder,” Ella said. “Can’t imagine they learn anything more than we did. Good thing no one expects us to navigate by the stars.”

“Or tell time by the sun.”

“Oh no, that I can do.”

Seth looked over at her. “You can?”

She laughed again. “Just kidding. I might be able to give you noon. That’s it.”

Seth sat up and looked over to where others from their group were sitting around the bonfire. “I almost didn’t come on this retreat,” he said. “Usually these kinds of things drive me nuts, and especially when you’re trapped out of town in some retreat center, but this –” He looked at Ella and smiled.

“Oh, I’m with you,” she said. “Like when you get a motivational speaker and you have to act as if anything they’re saying has anything to do with your work. The worst!” She looked over at him. “But these three days have been great.”

He hoped she meant that the three days of getting to know him had been great. He still couldn’t believe they worked in partnering units and he’d never seen her before. But here she was, and he hated that the retreat was ending the next day. What if it hadn’t been enough time to make her want to keep knowing him?

He wanted to be the kind of man who had anything that could be described as “moves.” He wanted to be able to flirt with her, wanted to say something that would make her lean into him the way he’d seen women do with other men, lean in with anticipation and the flush of excitement.

“Which bus are you on to head back after lunch tomorrow,” she asked.

Her eyes were closed, and Seth took a deep breath. Here was an opportunity he hadn’t thought of. “Oh, I drove up,” he said, hoping it sounded off-hand, as casual as an answer to her question should have sounded. He took another breath. “I could drive you back if you like.” His voice cracked just a little over “like,” but maybe she wouldn’t notice.

She opened her eyes but focused on the sky, not him. “Thanks. I’d like that. Much better than the bus ride. Oh –” she pointed up quickly, and he squinted up to follow her direction. “It was a shooting star,” she said. “At least I think so. It went so fast.”

“Did you make a wish?” Why had he asked her that? Was he seven years old? He tried to think of a way to laugh it off, but suddenly had no words.

“I always make a wish,” she said. “I’ll let you know if it comes true.”

Seth smiled. Even if she didn’t mean anything by it, her words gave him hope. He stretched out beside her again and watched the sky.

Leap Flash 2016

Dream Catcher (5 of 29)

I’m waking up, and the first thing I hear is shouting from upstairs, my ever-angry neighbors arguing over whose turn it is to make the morning coffee. I look at Asa and am pleased that he’s still asleep, although I don’t understand how he can be. I sit up and grab my journal from the night table.

Asa curls into himself as the fight rages on, and I try to sift through my thoughts. The coffee forgotten, my neighbors now offer opinions on the previous night’s sex.

“You could do more than lie there. It’s like fucking a log!”

Maybe if you made me feel something, I’d do more than lie there!”

“Oh, you felt it … came like a freight train!”

I close my eyes and lean against the headboard. They’ll stop in a second. The moment anyone mentions climax, they get inspired to go have another. It’s a ritual — for them and for me. They remind me how many changes I’ve made in my life and then give me a lovely silent interlude between their angry shouting and sex shouting.

I go back to my journal, but whatever my dream was, I’ve forgotten it. I’ve been trying to keep track, but most mornings are like this one, and by the time I’m fully awake, the memory of my dream world is gone.

In the silence, Asa unfurls. His waking always pleases me. It’s a slow unwinding, a lazy spiral back to consciousness that spreads down his legs, out across his chest and arms, reaching his eyes last of all.

“You and that notebook,” he says, his voice thick. “Just like the movie.”

I have to smile, even though I’ve heard this every time he’s woken up beside me. He is seeing me in Henry and June, one of his favorite movies, seeing me as Anaïs Nin, who sat up in bed next to Henry Miller, writing and writing. From our first night together, he’s awakened to see me writing or daydreaming, my notebook open on my knees.

“You’re like Anis,” he’d said, pronouncing her name the way Fred Ward as Henry did on screen.

He sits up and kisses my shoulder then turns away to busy himself at the nightstand, rolling a joint. The shouting starts anew as the neighbors begin to build toward their finale.

“I always wake up just in time, don’t I?” Asa asks, looking over his shoulder to wink at me. “I give them five minutes.”

I smile. “No. At least ten.” Another part of the ritual, guessing how long after sex before they fight again. “Five minutes is just not nice.”

“How’s your chest?” I ask as he settles beside me and lights up. The asthma for which he has the marijuana prescription has been trouble these last few days. I want him to go to the doctor, but he refuses.

“A little better,” he says.

He holds out his hand, and I put mine in it. And the angry shouting picks up above us. The sex, after all, has made them late for work.

“I win,” Asa says. “What would we do if he ever hit her?”

“Call the police.”

He looks at me. “You sure didn’t have to think twice about that.”

“No.” Because all I ever wanted was for someone to call the police when I was the one getting hit.

The first time we listened, Asa got excited, wanted us to put on our own floor show. But it was too shocking for me, hearing the same insults that had been thrown at me, things I hadn’t heard in years. There was no way I could go from that to use their lovemaking as some dysfunctional turn-on. But I listen. In case they escalate, in case I need to make that 911 call.

Asa doesn’t know any of that, and I don’t want him to. I should. I should share everything. Of course. But who does that, really? He thinks I’m too strong to ever be that woman, and I don’t want to kill that image he holds of me. I want him to keep seeing me as Anis.

He leans back, closes his eyes. I keep listening, just in case.

There are any number of people I might be like. Anaïs Nin isn’t one of them. But I like it because of the explosive, pounding blood of the passion she and Miller shared. I’m no Anaïs, and Asa’s not Henry, but I want him to love me like that, want to believe someone ever could. The woman who said, “I fell,” every time she wound up in the ER didn’t inspire that kind of love. Maybe the strong one who captures her dreams in a composition book will.


Leap Flash 2016

Black Excellence (4 of 29)

“Today in Black Excellence –”

Olympia shut down her computer. She loved Kid Fury, but if she started listening to The Read, she’d miss AJ at the train and be late for work.

She slipped on her jacket and walked to the subway, still thinking about Black Excellence. That adorable little girl accepted into Mensa at four years old after scoring 145 on an IQ test. That savvy 11-year-old who started #1000BlackGirlBooks because she sick of reading about white boys and dogs. The woman who bought an old bus and turned it into a mobile tech lab for the computer-less kids in her community.

“Oh, God,” AJ said when Olympia met him on the platform. “What too-special, feel-good nonsense has you looking all dopey and full of love for mankind this morning?”

Olympia smiled. “Black Excellence,” she said, taking his hand.

“Of course. Black fucking excellence.” He shook his head. “How am I supposed to maintain my snark, my scowl when you’re all beaming and high on your people?”

Your people, too, Alexander James.”

“Do not start with the names,” he said, holding up a hand to silence her. “Yes, my people. Fine.”

“Will it cheer you up if I tell you who all I’ve been thinking about?”

They boarded the train and sat across from the conductor’s booth.

“Don’t tell me a thing,” AJ said, stretching out his legs and draping his arm across Olympia’s shoulders. “You marching tonight?”

She sighed, leaned against him. “Of course.”

He nodded. “I get it, you know,” he said, looking over at her. “You need those reminders. We all do.” He sat up and turned toward her. “But it hurts too much to get excited and happy about some bright light of a child. Because they get gunned down and left in the street, their Black Excellence impugned on the news, their killers protected.”

He turned and leaned back, eyes closed.

Olympia took his hand, squeezed it. Imagining the Mensa baby dead in the street drove a ripping pain through her chest.

How many marches had they been to? How many rallies, die-ins, say-the-names events? It was in the midst of all that grief and death-marking that she’d begun cataloging everyday Black Excellence, calling out regular folks whose lives shone a light in hers.

Years earlier, she’d started a morning ritual of mentally listing things that made her happy — the colors of the Caribbean Sea, her close relationship with her sister, the sound of Italian, waking up in sunshine. And she noticed that, the longer she made the list, the stronger its impact. Three things were nice, seven made her smile, a dozen and she felt content.

“This must be why people say to count your blessings!” she’d said to AJ at the time.

“You and my Nana, singing the same song,” he’d said, laughing. “I never saw that coming.”

But he’d frustrated her by refusing to try it himself. He noted her good mood but did nothing to alter his own.

The Black Excellence catalog didn’t have the same effect. She felt grounded when she called out those people.

“Go on,” AJ said then, returning the pressure on her hand. “Go on. Tell me who you’ve been thinking about. Anoint me with some shiny excellence.”

She would cry later — the marches always brought tears. Too much anger and grief, too much choking impotence. AJ would hold her hand then, too. And she’d keep marching, keep chanting, despite her tears.

But that was hours away. She raised their joined hands and kissed AJ’s wrist. “So, it’s called Estella’s Brilliant Bus,” she said. “And it’s just the best thing.”¹

Leap Flash 2016

¹ – Check out all of the Black Excellence referenced above: the too-adorable, super-brilliant Mensa baby, the girl who started #1000BlackGirlBooks, and the lovely and generous Estella Pyfrom who owns and operates Estella’s Brilliant Bus!

Artist’s Rendering (3 of 29)

Paulette spread the architect’s sketches over the dining table then stepped back to give Helena room to study them. Helena, arms crossed tightly, eyes pinched at the corners, stared past Paulette toward the window.

“Come on, Helena. At least glance at them.”

“We agreed,” Helena said. “No renovation planning. We have a significantly bigger issue to resolve first.”

Paulette sighed. “It’s not as if I went out and hunted this guy up,” she said. “Karel introduced us at that networking event last week and –”

“And because your boss put this man in your face, you forgot all about what I wanted, what we decided? You forgot that you knew exactly what your boss was doing? Or did you forget to be offended by Karel and choose to go along with his plan?”

“I made small talk. I didn’t offer to hire this guy, or invite him to come break down walls tomorrow. I didn’t ask him on a date, or offer to have his children. All I knew about him was his profession. What was I going to talk to him about, French absurdist theater?

“Do you care at all that I’m angry?”

Paulette gathered up the drawings. “I care, but I don’t understand why you’re this angry. I made small talk at a cocktail party. I go through this at least twice a month because of Karel. You know that. Yes, I talked about the apartment. He’s an architect. Talking about the apartment was safe ground for conversation. It’s hardly my fault that he took it on himself to do some sketches and drop them by the office.”

She slipped the drawings back into their portfolio. If Helena would only look at them, she’d be amazed. Paulette had mentioned some of their design ideas casually — she’d been making small talk, after all, not trying to give the guy any real ideas — and Saleh had fleshed out two, three, five variations of each one.

Saleh. He was the problem. Not really him, but the reason she’d been introduced to him. Her boss made no secret of wanting to find her a man. “My clients like my teams coupled up and settled down,” he’d told her. He took every opportunity to introduce her to single men, and was growing increasingly frustrated at her failure to fall in love with one of them.

At the networking event, Karel had homed in on Saleh like a heat-seeking missile. Saleh was young and beautiful in a bookish jock way. He had dark wavy hair and impossibly-long eye lashes. Karel had nudged her as they’d approached, whispering, “I’ve outdone myself this time.”

And, while Saleh was certainly the most attractive of the men Karel had thrown at her, his attractiveness had no impact on her lack of attraction to men, or her being in love with Helena. But she wasn’t out at work, and for a moment she’d wondered if a few coffee and lunch dates with Saleh would put a stop to Karel’s inappropriate and insultingly random match-making.

It was the wrong answer, of course, but an easy one. One right answer would be threatening Karel with a harassment law suit. Another would be the answer Helena wanted, the resolution to the ‘big issue’ expanding between her and any enthusiasm about Paulette’s home-making plans.

“My boss,” Helena would say every time Karel made one of his introductions, “my coworkers. Building security and the maintenance crew. They all know who you are. They don’t think I have a room mate, don’t think you’re my old friend from college.”

But Paulette wasn’t ready, didn’t think she was ready to be ready.

She tossed the drawings onto the couch. “Forget the sketches for now,” she said. “Let’s have dinner.”

Helena turned and left the room.

* * *

Paulette left work early the next day so she could get started on one of Helena’s favorite dishes, coconut cream curry with roast chicken. The plan: have the apartment full of the seductive aroma when Helena walked in and be ready with an apology. She made a quick pass through the market and was poking through options at the flower stall when Helena texted to say she’d accepted a dinner invitation and would be home late. Somehow, Helena sensed that the situation with Saleh was different, and a home-cooked meal wouldn’t fix that. Paulette shrugged, bought the flowers anyway, and went home.

The problem was that she hadn’t actually dismissed her idea about using Saleh to get Karel off her back. She’d been so pleased to find him waiting for her after her lunch meeting, so touched by the time he’d taken to render her ideas.

And it didn’t hurt that Karel had seen them talking, had seen that Saleh had brought her a gift.

“I told you I’d outdone myself,” Karel had said as soon as Saleh left. “What did he bring you?”

“Just some drawings.”

Just some drawings, she says. The man created something for you! Tell me you haven’t put your foot in it, that you’ll be seeing him for lunch or dinner.”

“Karel, I am not discussing this with you.”

“That sounds like a ‘yes’ to me!” he’d crowed, laughing as he walked back to his office.

It was a yes. She’d agreed to meet Saleh for drinks, telling herself she just wanted to talk about the sketches. It had been so easy. Except that she’d only barely set the thing in motion, and already it was hurting Helena.

Back at the apartment, she poured herself a glass of wine. She’d call Saleh in the morning and cancel. That was the question with the real easy answer. For the harder ones, she needed Helena. She thought about Saleh’s sketches — their clarity, their variations — and wished she had a rendering of what everything looked like once she’d cleaned up the mess she’d made and found her way through.

Leap Flash 2016

Chamber Music (2 of 29)

Grey rummaged through the clothes heaped on his couch. He needed socks. He had an interview with the advertising director of a classical concert series. She needed an assistant, “Someone to control the clutter and keep me organized,” she’d said. He paused his search, looked around his room, and shrugged. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. He went back to the clothes. Crushed into the crevice behind the cushions, he found a clean pair.

He filled the kettle, put it on the hot plate, rinsed his travel mug and added honey and chai teabags.

The concert series was his first interview in weeks. He almost hadn’t sent his resume, then he’d read the contact information: “All inquiries to Xenobia Greene.”

It was possible that he didn’t know her, but could there be that many Xenobia Greenes? He’d resisted the urge to google her, let himself enjoy the mystery. Her voice when she’d called to set up the interview hadn’t given anything away. She’d been ten the last time he’d seen her, so there was no telling what her adult voice would sound like. If she’d sounded even a little like Cassandra, he’d have known for sure. Her voice was rich and deep, didn’t sound young at all, but he still believed it would be her … and wondered if she’d recognized his name.

He fussed his fingers through is locs, sorting them into a loose ponytail, filled his mug, and headed for the train.

She ran the series out of an office in a renovated warehouse on the waterfront. It was full of artist’s studios and performance spaces. Grey stood in the brightly-lit waiting area, trying not to think about how much he needed the job or how much he both wanted and didn’t want Miss Greene to turn out to be his Xenobia.

“Mr. Foster,” she said, walking toward him with her hand outstretched.

She was as tall as Cassandra and as striking a woman as she’d been in childhood — too-high cheekbones and large, wide-set eyes balanced by her wide, full mouth, her skin darker than his, darker than her sister’s had been. His chest constricted, and a dull ache expanded across his ribs. She didn’t look like Cassandra, but Cassandra was there.

He shook her hand. “Grey, please.”

“Let’s sit,” she said, leading him to her office.

He sat and she gave him a long, steady look. He figured he should leave right then but couldn’t move, couldn’t remember to breathe.

“It is you, isn’t it?”

“Me,” he said, surprised he could force out the air to speak, his lungs felt squeezed in a vise. “And you. You’re the reason I applied for this position.”

She nodded. “So you don’t really want the job?”

“Oh, I want it, but I decided to apply when I saw your name. I didn’t think you’d recognize me. Or remember me.”

She nodded again. “Because you figure I’ve met so many men named Grey who my sister was in love with, who treated me kindly and not like a child?” She glanced away and he saw her jaw tighten. “Who seemed like a member of my family,” she said, looking back at him, “but disappeared when my sister died, just when I might have needed him most? That’s why you thought I wouldn’t recognize or remember you?”

The tightness in his chest stretched wider.

“I shouldn’t hire you,” she said, picking up his resume from her desk. “You sound good on paper, but you’re a complete mess. I remember what your place looked like. How are you supposed to keep me organized?”

“I could have changed.”

“Eighteen years.” She shrugged. “Have you changed?”

He wanted to smile, but his muscles wouldn’t cooperate. “Not much,” he admitted.

“I shouldn’t hire you.”

“Not just because I’m disorganized.”

“Why did you come here?”

“I had to see you, see how you grew up. And here you are.” He blew out a long breath. “I’m sorry.”

She put his resume back on the stack of papers then sat, staring at his hands. “I thought I was included in all that love the two of you spread around, coming off you like cascades of honey and sunshine.”

“Xen –”

“I wrote you. I called.” She shook her head, looked up, surprising Grey with her dry eyes shining confusion, not anger.

“My mother made me stop,” she said. “She said it was too hard for you. For you.

It had been hard, Grey remembered. Every letter like blood on the page, her voicemails choked with tears. He hadn’t known what to do with her grief when he couldn’t do anything with his own. He still didn’t know.


She closed her eyes for a second, as if disappointed or pained. He wanted to tell her about the eighteen years since her sister’s death, tell her that he’d never married, never even come close. But that wasn’t because of losing Cassandra, or not only that. There were too many reasons for him living in a cramped studio with no job and no family. They didn’t all trace to Cassandra. Some did. Seeing Xenobia reminded him. But also soothed him. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed to know that she’d come through okay.

And now he sat across from her disordered desk, barely holding himself back from begging her for a job.

He stood. “I’ll go.”

Her eyebrows arched. “You don’t want the job?”

“I kind of do,” he said, smiling as his lungs filled. “But you shouldn’t hire me.”

She stood. “So now you’ll leave, disappear again.”

“No, I’ll email you like I should have done in the first place.”

“Okay,” she said, and walked him out. “You won’t, but okay.”

He started to walk away, and she jogged after him. “Change your mind about the job,” she said. “We could find a way to make it work.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll think about it.” He knew he wouldn’t, but okay.

Two stories down, 27 to go! Today was definitely easier than yesterday. Hoping tomorrow is easier still.

Leap Flash 2016

A Flash in the Pan (1/29)

I know folks are busy in Iowa tonight, but there’s some business going on over here at If You Want Kin, too.

Leap Flash 2016


Oh yes, that’s right: it’s another writing challenge! I managed to get halfway through September before I remembered that I was supposed to be doing 30 stories in 30 days. So that didn’t happen. Rather than wait for September to roll around again, I’m diving in for February. I even made a logo! (It needs some work, but I was in a hurry.) I’m super rusty. I started five stories today … and then wound up writing this one in the last half hour. I don’t think it’s finished, but the day’s over, so … Here’s hoping the rest of the month plays out a bit differently.

You, of course, are welcome to dive in with me!

The Owlery

Letta unfastened Jacob’s lapis cuff links and put them in her jewelry box. She liked their weight, the thick silver setting, the solid clunk as they landed on the felt that lined the wooden drawer. She’d been wearing Jacob’s accessories since choosing which suit to bury him in. His tie tacks became tiny brooches, his tie pins adorned her hats and caught up her scarves. The cuff links served their given purpose as she wore his French cuff shirts every day.

She reached into the jewelry box and picked out the last set of cuff links she’d given him — onyx owls articulated in gold. He’d laughed when he’d seen them.

“Now you’ve done it!” he’s said. “I think you’ve officially given me every possible owl gift there is!”

He might have been right. She’d stayed on the look out for owls, and they never seemed to go out of style. Jacob had even made a sign for their front door, “The Owlery.” He’d carved a pair of True Owls below the name, one for him, one for her. He’d given hers a little tilt to the head to match the way she would look at him when he started to go on about owls.

She’d seen owl cuff links before the onyx pair. None had been of high enough quality. Jacob had been serious about his dress, always looking his best. “Old-money fine,” he liked to say. Cheap, novelty cuff links would have hurt his feelings.

“You home, Grandma Letta?!”

Letta put the links back in the box and closed the drawer. She rolled up her sleeves as she turned toward her granddaughter’s voice.

“Just coming now, Christina dear. Didn’t hear you come in.”

Christina, or one of her sisters, came by several times a week. If anyone asked Christina why she spent so much time at Letta’s, Christina talked about coming for cooking and sewing lessons, but Letta knew the visits were to keep and eye out, make sure the old lady was okay on her own. Christina’s mother, Letta’s youngest daughter, was convinced it was long since time Letta should have sold her home and moved into care.

“I baked yesterday,” Christina said, smiling, taking a tea towel-wrapped package from her bag. “I made the soda bread, the one you make, just the way you taught me.  I wanted to be sure you got a taste before Mike and the kids ate it all.”

“Let’s go inside,” Letta said, nodding toward the kitchen. “I’ll make tea to go along with that bread.”

She was having fun teaching Christina different cooking techniques and tricks. They hadn’t moved on to sewing yet, but she was ready, had just bought some beautiful, summery cotton fabric that would be fun to work with. She planned to nudge Christina in that direction soon.

She loved the visits, but didn’t love the feeling that they were work for Christina, that the visits were more about duty than pleasure. She caught her checking her watch often, had seen the look of near-panic that had been quickly smothered the one time she’d thought Letta was asking her to stay for dinner.

The water boiled, Letta poured it into the tea pot, dropped an old knitted cozy over the pot, and brought it to the table. “How are Mike and the boys?”

“You’ll see for yourself on Saturday.” Christina said. “Remember, we’re taking you to the botanic garden and then for lunch.”

“Yes, I remember,” Letta said. She pointed to the cork board by the phone, happy to have proof that her memory was just fine. “I picked up maps to the garden so you can decide what you want to see when we get there.”

“What are you having for dinner tonight?

Letta gritted her teeth Then took a bite of the bread to make Christina wait a beat. The bread was good. Clearly, their afternoons together were bearing some fruit.

“I still have leftovers from yesterday,” she said. They had made two large trays of mac and cheese, one to go home with Christina. The other was sitting in the fridge. She focused on the soda bread to distract her from her annoyance. “Christina, this is perfect. You did a great job.”

“That’s what Mike said. He really liked it!” Christina blushed. “I think he didn’t believe me at first, thought I’d brought it from your house.”

Letta smiled. “We’ll call that a compliment, shall we?”

“When he says that after I make your lemon pound cake, I’ll call it a miracle.” Christina poured the tea and buttered another slice of bread. “I can’t stay long today. I’ll just have a few sips of this and then I have to go.”

Letta nodded. “That’s fine, dear. We’re all busy.”

She wanted Christina to leave, which surely made her America’s Worst Granny, but that was honest, and she was tired of pretending otherwise. She wanted the house to herself, wanted to sit with her photo albums, forget about the present day for a moment, remember the ways Jacob could make her laugh. Mostly, she wanted the freedom to let her guard down, not have to perform wellness to keep her children and grandchildren at bay.

She closed the door behind Christina and put on the chain. She went back to her room and took out the horned owl tie tack she’d bought the week before Jacob passed. She’d waited, wanting to find a tie to go with it, had plans to comb through the selection at his favorite men’s store. Instead, she’d woken up to find him dead beside her, never having seen that she’d found one more owl gift, one more way to make him laugh.

She pinned the owl to her collar and went to clean up the tea and bread.

Flesh, Blood, Breath

Flesh, Blood, Breath

Bury the bodies. Each sacred, each loved. Linger over choosing the right outfit, the right music, the flowers that will make the going-home service exactly what you want. As if this service could ever be exactly what you want. Bury the bodies. With friends and family standing on cold, windswept knolls, on sunny patches of technicolor grass, in crocus-dotted fields thick with post-winter mud, in the shadow of elevated tracks in the heat of July. Bury the bodies. Tamir, Akai, Pearlie, Yvette, Eric, Trayvon, Rekia, Eleanor, Michael, Oscar, Tarika, Aiyana, Derek, Sean, Shereese, Miriam. Bury the bodies. Keep the memories fresh with stories and photos. Bury the bodies. Tanisha, Jordan, Shelly, Amadou, Darnisha, John, Malissa, Ramarley, Alesia, Patrick, Shantel, Rumain, Kathryn, Ezell, Deion, Alberta, Kimani, Kendra, Reynaldo. Bury the bodies. Bury all of the bodies. Bury each of the bodies. Say: “Not one more,” every single time. Bury the bodies. Understand that, with the amount of ground that has swallowed our loves, we could have built our own colony, built our own society. Understand that it wouldn’t have mattered, that hate would still have come for us. Breathe. Bury the bodies. Bury the bodies. Bury the bodies. When there is no room left for our dead, how will hate erase us then?

And another year of 30 poems in 30 days comes to a close. As I did last year, followed along with the Poem-A-Day challenge at Robert Lee Brewer’s Poetic Asides Blog. For the month’s final poem:

Take the phrase “Bury the (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem.

You can post your daily poems on Brewer’s page. The top poem from each day will be included in an anthology later this year!


Did you write poems this month? Where can I see them?
Are you exhausted after this 30/30 craziness?