Urban Girl & The Origin Story

    siaara freeman

​

 

The day I was born I saw my grand-daughter. She has a tattoo of a face that is mine boasting down her wicker basket of a back. She is naked from the waist up dancing in a quicksand

of lovers.

 

It looks nothing like me now. The eyes are too sure. The smile is not sure

enough. One day there will be no differences.

 

Whatever years I have left will be spent becoming

the woman who turns her daughter’s daughter’s back into a mosaic

of black Baptist Easter Sunday. This morning

 

I become a countdown that ends with me being a portrait

hanging in a museum of all my best

choices.

 

The day I was born a siren spoke for the first time, she said you will send them all to us

with their heads still on.

She told me I was a language ready to be learned. A nest of folklore that has gathered itself

for the girl children.  A pirate ship: the crew, the jewels, the dead things. The sea air bloated 

with its own salt

              

The hot laughing rum. Its tears. The walking of the plank. The anchors made

of shark teeth and mirrors.

 

The day I was born someone was murdered.

And then someone else.

And then someone else.

              And then someone else.

              And then someone else.

              And then someone else.

              And then someone else.

              And then someone else. 

              

Until it was my father and then I lost count.

The day I was born, my mother woke the sphinx.

The sphinx

winked.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Urban Girl & The (Urban) Urban Legend

   

For Jessica

 

Every time a black girl in my hood is murdered

the beauty shops become “who’s next?” quiet.

 

A porch becomes a life boat. Ladies & children first the men cling to whatever

they haven’t destroyed in this state of constant emergency. We huddle like a humming pack of slaves. The names of the un-rescued chapping our lips.

 

Weed sales go up but most of the corner boys just giving you something for free or close.

So are the dope boys. The corner girls & dope girls are still comforting survivors. Everybody say they was her cousin/friend/lover/auntie/god-mama/classmate/neighbor/god-daddy/uncle/ home-girl/ first kiss/ last kiss/ old crush/ enemy/ co-worker/ got twerk at a house party/ got help on a math test/ owed 40 dollars/ loaned 40 dollars/ niece/nephew/ grace & grace & tomorrow was gone see her.

 

A Hennessey bottle is passed around, a little bit of everywhere. Once the liquor matches

the amount of blood spilled from the black girls dead body --the black women & girls

on the porch turn into creatures. The creatures are made of many things but mostly scabs

& laughter & get up & go & come back

when you can.

 

They eat & drink & make sure they are fed & full as empty will allow. The older ones brush the younger ones hair into merry scowls. The creatures, they have heavy skin. Of burning photographs. Of themselves screaming the murdered woman’s name.

 

The creatures wear gowns & graveyard

& lingerie & semi-automatics

& jordans & ridicule

& booty shorts & brass knuckles

& sun dresses & grit

& tuxedos & glass

& boxers & panties & nothing

The creatures make a music from their bones ---cause you to cry

 

Their eyes are each other & each other & each other & each other & each other &

their jaws are denials

revoked.

 

Their nails are whatever they can throw that will stick.

& that smile? That smile?--- It is terror deciding

who to save

first.