On the Ground
A man,
prostrate,
fingers on his hands splayed
spat gum engrained
in the lines of his fingerprints.
I thanked my lucky stars to be born after that
but right in the middle
of this and us.
Faded flames still burn our future freedom bus.
They’ve always told me that black was mean,
but just yesterday white hoods
hosed my Sunday best clean and
we heard a speech by Dr. King outlining a dream
where black people were free
without scrubbing
Rubber-gloving and
Bleach cream.
Maybe the gravel can take the color off.
American Dream
American releases a scream from inside
the hollow of her throat
but a weary white hand promised a Dream
won’t let go
Will choke what little clean air is left
lead to believe they own everything
They think it isn’t theft.
Soot. Ash.
I always feel dirty now.
Like soot
Ash
Unworthy now.
I plead please see
I didn’t ask for this
Black skin, Black hair
Big Black lips
I’m sorry I’m here
If that’s what you need to hear
I’m sorry.
I’ll kill myself to save you the trouble
Don’t worry, I’ll clean the blood.
Don’t worry, I’ll write the article that calls me a thug.
Destine Carrington is a queer, black woman with a BFA in Creative Writing from the University of North Carolina Wilmington because she enjoys challenges. Other things she enjoys include but are not limited to: burgers, brownies, and Batman.
He made it possible. He was formerly a fabulist.
He was faceless, but he was ugly, graceless
and he made everything disappear.
aligning
as fingers
deftly dance
on checkered
smooth plastic
disco stage
Adam’s countenance: beer cask-heavy
his eyes: glazed shallots
his smile: a split itself
Now take away the need
for moisture and the deteriorating
qualities of autumn. The veins
and stems will release as well.
Take away the release. Take
away the seasons.
When Taylor Swift was at the gym in Japan
she watched the muscled back of a man
moving up and down a heavy machine
made by other heavy machines for men.
of spontaneous human combustion,
of pictures with the Cherry Hill Mall Santa,
of a stapler after getting my wrist stuck to my teacher’s green bulletin board,
and on the tv
a drag queen
sharing her recipe
for sun tea
asks us if we want to
watch her take a break
and we take a break
Honeywell closed their Minnesota plant quietly
and the addition of warning stickers on album covers
would save the children along with D.A.R.E., Nancy
and Tipper directing the conversation, for some reason.
I read, I traveled, I, Lina, thief’s daughter, a discarded toy by the campfire
at night, my planets – burned by sparks,
burned by coincidences, in my eyelashes – stalagmites of ashes.
Because Phil Collins is for fools and old ladies.
Because the ocean’s too wide a body of water
for a commando to cross alone. Because gentlemen
never kiss and tell, and soldiers never share
their kill count. Because you teach the meaning
of words like ‘amorous’ and ‘varnish’ and ‘leave.’