@l3ibra.blacksky.app cause i didn’t forget about #poetryfridays…

“the one where we’re obsessed with each other”

a stunning photo of the crescent moon in the night sky. you can see the entirely of the spherical nature of the moon, but light is only beaming from the crescent portion on its left side. sparse clouds float beneath it. closer to the viewer, tree branches and da long yellow flowers frame the photo. the very edge of a building can be seen on the left side. my beautiful sister Kendra took this photo.

my poem. it reads: finding words without pressure. peace without pardon. ascents without bellows. time without constraints. love without weights. "i need you, but wait." i exist with the nonviable. i sacrifice for the unreliable. i fall back into the wombs and wells that welcome and warm and heal and hold. cycle by cycle, they refuse the cold. i am mothered by new faces and cauterized by old. the lips desired by my aches are reserved for tastes, delicacies, draining me of my serenity. still i reach. i release reason. bathe myself in treason. wash my lesions, succumb to fading adhesion. i am baptized tirelessly. with every singe of my flesh, i am salved and salted by sweetness and sainthood. angels are existent and they slide their holy essence into bloodlines that have carried the burdens of this country. bronze, wooly, full-bodied, umber eyed, tender skinned, thick through thin, voices that blend, wails carried on wind. no visual rules, no sonic barriers, no sensory constraints-just soul and the sound of the divine. they revive me every time. they know the cycles-they have met the moon and made deals with her for the healing of girls and women yet to come. they give me no shame when, yet again, i succumb. simply, they scrub my skin and soak me in earth married to water. they cool my head. psalms evoke the dead, enlivening the blessings they shed. i become the words, i am alchemized into the peace. i bellow to the heights i cannot reach. our love transcends time and meets no defeat. sisterhood is the reason, the purpose, and the lead. asé, indeed. c.I.

#poetryfridays.

an absolutely stunning photograph of an older woman’s adorned hands grasping some raspberries that are bordered by blackberries. her hands are aged beautifully and dressed with rings and colorful beaded bracelets. my bestie Kendra took this photo and it looks like an image of love, womanhood, and grace. the poem in the next photo of this post is too long to fit the alt text in just that photo so i’ll start the poem here: in another life, i will be my mother's mother. i'll cradle her and call her delicate names that her former life disallowed. i will bind her to sugar cane and boundaries and softness and the sentence "no" so that the importance of her comfort laminates her brilliant mind. i will show her the power of our ancestors and the songs they bellowed to the stars without dimming her curious spirit. i will let her dance to old praises and i will hum matriarchal hymns into her dimpled cheeks. her hide and seek will never be with a false god. my baby shall see the love of her lineage in the mirror, she will see the slope of her rounded nostrils and think of the mountains that her foremothers moved to and fro. she will use her lips to mimic birdsong that awakens and beckons her otherworldly guides to embrace her. she will know the ways of man and be lovingly told how to discern for the safety of her existence. no shame, no shame. it's not because of how you dress if the onus is on them if it's never your fault if it's okay to leave if you can always come back to me if no shame. no shame in the wrinkles, the crinkles, the valleys, the lightning of her hips, or the wealth of her belly, no shame in the finding out. no shame in the weakness. no shame in the hidden moments that teach you to be strict, to keep your head up, to not fall for it again. and if you fall again, you fall in my arms.

continued from last photo’s alt text: they will tell you to keep your path silent and they will criticize you for living this life for the first time. they will project their shame and expect you to know all of the roads and signs and streetlights. "the directions come pre-installed," they will say. you will know better because i have watered your humanity gently like orchids. in another life, i am my mother's mother. in my dreams, i undo the weight of her past life and adore her as she should have been. i will leave stains of affection on her little hands so her soul forgets the marks that once bled there. i will send soft waves of warmth into her ears to cancel out the shrieks of the past. i will bathe her in herbs and carry her to healers when her mind aches so she does not have to repeat the journey of clawing for a sanity that oppressors hoard for themselves. i will make the skies repent for watching her suffer. i will pull clouds down for her sleep. i will reverse lightning to avenge the death of her spirit. i will mother her as mothers should be allowed to mother. i will do what we couldn't before. i will liberate our love. i will heal for us all. c.I.

#poetryfridays.

i never forgot about #PoetryFridays. @l3ibra.blacksky.app

“notes on cellulose”

a gorgeous photo of a warm day, showcasing a sailboat drifting on blue waves. a larger boat is behind it, slightly to the right and somewhat cut off by the edge of the photo. a faint outline of mountains (and i think some buildings as well) can be seen in the background. in the foreground, outlining and framing the view of the sailboat, are some beautiful conical plants mostly placed at the bottom of the photo. they are shadowed, but their shapes are apparent. the entire photo has a slight sepia tone and a comforting vibe.

my poem. it reads: writhing in ash, i lift my gaze to see myself drifting. disconnected from the havoc of yesterday-yet still feeling my skin slide through the dark, powdery remnants of a drawn out wildfire—i peer over untouched stems and blossoms. miraculous bulbs of life sway before my eyes as my mind slowly pieces together an image of hope. at a point, i would scathe myself for not stiffening in the familiarity of winter. but i saw warmth. only warmth. and i floated so close that my wings burned. i saw flashes of my skeleton in hushed moments. evils that i had sent to the cross rippled from my throat. i sacrificed myself to the flames. i lay in the aftermath, fresh salt kissing my nose. the songs of the water caressing itself reanimates my spine. the wind promises the shedding of my burns. i hear a shell cracked by something tender. branches scrape up my nape and cool earth outlines my hips. i am lulled by metallic howls and whines. even if it is the cyclical nature of my being allowing me temporary respite, i will let the waves make love to my grieving legs. though the stars have their plans, i will dance as if my song will never end. i think. i can let danger mouth at my neck and open doors that may lead to chains. i become excited. i can expose my belly as if i want to be hunted, knowing that the earth would be amused by my eccentricity. aware that i am cradled, it muses on why i want to be devoured and dismantled again. this time, i can eat too. c.I.

#poetryfridays.

beautiful.

tamarind juice. #PoetryFridays

@l3ibra.blacksky.app we still doing #PoetryFridays?

a beautiful photograph of thin, curved tree limbs winding into each other and a crescent moon in a light blue sky in the background behind them. the moon is peaking from between the tiny limbs. photo courtesy of Kendra, my sister, who will be tagged in the reply. the next photo is a poem of mine, and since the alt text has a character limit, i will begin the poem here. here it is: where are the words for the stones that line my skin when i recline? for when my lids melt and smudge my cheekbones? when the haze collars me, she shuns me for my silence. then he dredges me up from the merciless depths and pushes my precious metal skin across hot pavement. i am marked expired when my lipstick smears. they didn't hear what they desired to hear. if it's not pretty, it's not perfect. if it isn't perfect, it doesn't deserve it. if it bleeds, it stains. if she leaves, it rains.

the rest of my poem. it reads: where do you want me? i'll make you smell like cinnamon. no, you want melodies mewing in your ear. now you need a visual. you want me propped and pieced for the center of the attention of your audience. do you want me alone now? okay. do you want me pitiful? is it okay to bite now? when should i be strong? does this dress make me look admirably commanding or is this not your preferred disturbance? how can i make revolution sexy for you? is this growth arousing or is it too realistic? did i miss a chapter? sorry, i sorry is too human. my mistake. don't look yet. i'm too apologetic about my nature. i should be unapologetic, but not too much. it will pass and i'll be divine again. let me find my balance. distract yourself until you want a taste again. i'll be sweet. let me ripen. i miss your teeth. you let them sink but it went too deep and you hit bone and now you're home and i'm alone and i just want to be held tight again. to be clenched is to be contained is to be chained is to be embraced is to be loved. isn't it? no. i know better. i should, shouldn't i? that would make it better, wouldn't it? if you know i know then we both know i'm prettier that way. i must always know. because when i forget, i am forgotten. when my slip shows, when my lace is torn, when my stockings run, when the mascara stains the apples on my face and makes them rot, i am filth. when the fog is high and high and higher, you are fury, rage, and it is dire. i'm sorry. where are my manners? my words? step back inside and i can dance for you instead. i can wear the dress that reflects and we can make you feel seen. the room will glitter like a disco and my melodies will rock you. the cinnamon on your skin will entice you. the stories you tell of the busyness i show you will be loud and impressive. there is no need for words when i perform for you. c.I.

#poetryfridays.

please welcome Trey to #poetryfridays by giving his beautiful work a read. i’m so blessed that he’s joined in 💙

@l3ibra.blacksky.app got me wanting to include myself in #PoetryFridays so…

“a zane novel”

loved this. i need to start doing #poetryfridays..

a gorgeous photograph of a subtle twilight sky. the sky is a dim, but light shade of blue and a crescent moon can be seen in the middle. two planets, looking like stars, are seen next to and slightly above the moon. bordering the lower left corner of the photo are the tops of trees, showing only leaves. their color is not extremely apparent—they’re darkened by the time of day. in the right lower corner is a tall building with some lights on in the windows closer to the bottom and some dark towards the top. on the very top of the building is what i think is a short lightning rod. the photo is gorgeous and taken by my bestie Kendra. the next photo in this post is a screenshot of a poem of mine. the alt text has a character limit that the poem exceeds so i will begin the poem here and the next photo’s alt text will continue it. here is the beginning of my poem: talk to me while the world is quiet and our roots will become tangled. i love watching old actors dance in the roundness of your eyes because it brings me closer to purpose. life is about watching the surroundings of those eyes gradually swell up with sleep as you reach for more minutes in my presence. your laugh grows larger than your body and you no longer have the resilience to keep it within your grasp. we think of things we won't remember, construct moments that will bond us beyond our time, and weep over what will not unlatch from our spines. every second thickens the cord between us. i'll feel you stirring in my heart when we part.

the rest of my poem: to mirror you, i dropped myself off deep inside of your chest before i left. and just like me, you will swallow your pills with the memory of my dialogue about my own side effects reverberating in your bones. you will feel the cold air snip at your cheeks and your skin will pulsate, remembering the path of the hot and euphoric tears you shed when i created our latest inside joke. you made me promise to never explain it to anyone else because it was too sacred. you think of this promise while robotically scratching your signature onto patient forms, stifling a smirk. the roots tighten. because you speak to me when the earth has shushed all but us, you will live just behind my widow's peak, swaddled, and paralleling my predominant concerns. when i lay my head to the pillow and the decibels of my stresses cause the waveforms of my mind to clip, i will recall the steady timbre of your voice soothing ancient wounds inside of me. the thought of your weathered fingers braiding history down my scalp is my muted lullaby. deeper and deeper, we are plaited into the layers beneath us. we will be immortalized by the echoes of our belly laughs, the shadows of our dance, and the energetic stains of our love. and when the world sleeps for decades forward, the traces of our murmurs will blend with the babbling brooks, the humming engines, the astral depths of our loved ones, and the aim of the stars. the ground where we sat will slowly and achingly groan out a willow that will become high enough to reach us so that we may have safe passage for our next journey together. our souls will slide down its tendrils like silk. we will recognize each other in the hush that surrounds us when our cord grows shorter. we will inch nearer, falsely tepid and fully awkward, until we realize that we shared nightfall together. we will re-entangle above the surface in an embrace that brings us home. we will talk while the world is quiet and tauten our roots again and again. c.I.

#poetryfridays.

When Black women come together, its truly magical. My pictures with @l3ibra.blacksky.app's way with words.......she really has a gift. Can't wait for more #poetryfridays

an absolutely gorgeous photo of a city skyline illuminated by the sunset. in front of it is a roof that is adorned with warm orange fairy lights. there are lovely street lamps sprinkled around the scenery and a small bird flies through the sky. this photo was taken by my wonderful friend Kendra. she is tagged in the reply.

my poem. it reads: your hand was soft when you needed me. when i was your escape, you held me like the horizon indulges the sun. when you sat in hellfire, i cooled your skin and illuminated your beauty with the lights of sleeping towns. i walked you through nights that hummed songs which echoed your unforgettable voice. i spoon-fed you the most innocent pieces of my vitality. i painted my memory of you to have smoldering street lamps, skylines, and the nostalgic feeling of a city that makes one feel invited-those evenings where you feel welcomed into something that only the nocturnal youth are aware of. i could put you and your laugh and your jingling bag and the clamor of your flask on shuffle and listen for hours. you made me feel angelic when i was a hiding place. and then you were freed, and i was shelved. i sat in the dust of your souvenirs and watched you return to truer desires. those eerie backstreets may not have been fooled by how you adored me, but for a moment, i was. i forgot my place. the jazz melodies and the sweet burn of spices blurred my senses and made me fall in love with false foreshadowing. i felt you soaking my love in, unaware that you were draining it. i wrestle with the vision of you admiring the lake with me again. i remember us snuggled in the grass, vignetted by aged buildings and yearning artists. i loved how eternal we felt. i think of how your childlike cries of joy harmonized with the heartbeat of the streets. i sit in awe of how we lived in a timeless film, playing parts that i didn't realize were scripted. you told me we could share roots. you called me blood. you sang lullabies into the chambers of my heart. i miss how soft you were when you were lying. c.I. 3.13.26

#poetryfridays.