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eating a $5 plate of string hoppers, I think of my father

snoozing in front of Seinfeld on the beige on beige recliner
his belly folds after years
of american chop suey, hamburgers and Michelob
Nothing
he really wanted to eat
was ever on the shelves
of Iandolli's or the Big D
I think of that man
who cried three times in my life
once when appamma died
once when our dog died
& once when I sent him
a 99-cent package of tamarind candy
& he called me long distance after Ma went to bed
weeping from tasting tamarind
for the first time in thirty years

a love poem for Sakia Gunn

Sakia            looking at your face on the memorial website
I know I could've fallen in love with you
so easy when I was sixteen
You could've met my eyes just once
wearing rainbow rings that were brave, not cheesy
We could've been taking that late train back to Newark
falling sticky stars all over each other in the vinyl seat
my titties poking out               pussy humming
stupid fearless

When I was 16 I gave blow jobs behind the high school
I would do anything to feel my breasts buzzing
When I was 18 I rode the N train home at 5 AM
smelling like Night Queen in a bra under a bomber jacket
I acted crazy I stared at the ad in front of me            I yelled my head off
Living was risky anyway
so I did what I needed to do
I was horny for the revolution
but I didn't have it

Did your girlfriend have your head in her lap that day?
Were you dancing to somebody's boombox
throwing shade and fixing nail tips
as the water kissed and slapped the piers
as the cops erected fences around bodies
but did not stop the men who asked you home?

Sakia
you were just trying to get home
We
are all trying to get there
with you
to that place where we can suck our breath
all the way down
where they do not end us

in memory and respect, for Sakia Gunn
Black queer youth, born 1987, murdered May 11, 2003

restorative justice

On the way back from New Orleans with my female boyfriend
we've almost made it through
until he tells me
You have to go over there
nods me over to that plexiglass soundproof chamber
where all the ones who aren't
real Americans get to go

and I think to myself
What if every time they pulled over one of us
we got to grab one of them?
What if every time any agent of immigration
who ever probed us with questions
like fingers put where they don't belong,
what if every time they called one of us
down a long beige hallway
leading to another long beige hallway
taking you to a place none of us want to go

What if every time we crossed a border we never made up
and they started up with
Why do you have a Quar'an in your bag?
Have you ever been on welfare?
Where is your husband? Why aren't you traveling with him?
We could start asking them questions
important ones, like
How do you touch your child
with the same hands that ripped open
my bags, my Qua'ran, my stories?

What if we could bring them to that long beige place
and make them unlock all the ones who didn't make it through?
keep going open the doors at Guantanimo and the Celebrity Inn
what if we could jump behind that counter
get on the PA and announce
It is herby declared
that all borders are bullshit
and starting today
we will never stand on this line
sweating terror
ever
again

inspired by June Jordan's poem, “Poem about police brutality,”