Poetry
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Poetry,
growing season
they called us mothers too & for this we laid low
with our eyes to the ground, opened our mouths
into dirt & prayed for the chance to be useful.
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Poetry,
our people had mansions
Let the wild desert we made bloom remember / while the world debates the historical / amnesia we call inheritance. / —Memory outlives bodies & buildings; becomes legacy.
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Poetry,
Keystone
Praise to the tail whip, Big Poppa-wheelie, the noise that persists even when the rest of the world / has gone silent. I mean, have you ever watched a Black boy blossom –
![](https://porterhousereview.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/02/2_5-Poetry-1-300x191.jpg)
Poetry,
Mythmaking
I split myself into halves/then halves again. An egg split open/creasing yolk, rolling smaller spheres/all yellow inside.
![](https://porterhousereview.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/01/1_8-Poetry-300x200.jpg)
Poetry,
I’m Tired of Writing Diaspora Poems
pulp. peel my skin,
spice, fry. bones
crushed, tasted.
swallow my tongue.
![](https://porterhousereview.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/11/11_13-Poetry-scaled-e1699897645424-300x206.jpg)
Poetry,
Nuestra Lengua Nativa
I told you, “no es importante”
I laid your head on my chest
told you, “escucha”
escucha la lengua de mi corazón
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Poetry,
I am haunted
I recite prayers and my ancestors respond, there is no good, no evil only sand where language fragments and clumps when salt rushes to meet it
![](https://porterhousereview.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/09/9_18-Poetry-2-300x200.jpg)
Poetry,
In the Forest Behind the City
Saving these children / means leaving their grandmother / to be swallowed by bullets and a lake