Ma is sitting on the porch
just before the laid out crumble
of stone outlined by brick and mortar
iron bands, gold shell casings
and silence
except for the sky
did you know colors can speak
burnt orange clouds
like fluffed up dried blood
its been raining for years
on shirts, on limbs
on the inside of women’s thighs
bitten by the cold
unforgiving—
that’s how we got here
the place where we are shown
what we have shown
what does Pa think of all this?
he’s looking right up at that sky
scarred and singed
defiant in his brokenness
feelings awash amid the rubble
now comes the season of atonement.

Note to self
you are the divine embodiment
of the universe
you are you and that is
better than anything else
you are worthy of love
and capable of learning
to love more and more
better and better
you are journeying through the universe
like a star in the sky
do not fear being seen
or hide away if misunderstood
to be seen is an opportunity to be heard
it is the only way to live
in the open, and openly
all hidden things wish to be seen
if only by the eyes of the few
life will give to you
your time of need
and you will be better
for having received it
to welcome life’s taking
without grasping
is to receive something altogether greater
less seen
more of yours than anything was before
believe in the yes that is only for yourself
not only the one you give to others
and learn to use them both
can you say yes to deserving more
and cherish the change?
It is imperative that you do
yes is the only answer worth giving
to life, to love, to yourself.

Down the hallway
dimly lit eyes peak open
from pores on the pale painted skin
covering each door.
Jesus sings a song
while listening to stories
of the resurrection from other people
on their fourth trip
back to this world.
Walls white as paper
scratched with caveman markings
like Lascaux
hidden under sound
from black screens
with holes in their faces
opening and closing
at the touch of their faces.
Bushes of green trees cover concrete
like an oasis in the sand.
At its end
a large window
keeps thick skinned
scaly trees at bay
near a chair, cushioned and pink
pointing back up the hallway
from which to sit
and ponder these things.

Do you remember
the dream you had
some seventeen years ago
about saving the world with prose?
Intersectional towers of oppression
crumbling down
while you move through
crowded dance floors at night.
Maybe it felt lost
misplaced under stacks of bills
holding place in textbooks
or gave birth to something new
when you held the soft pink skin
of your daughter against your own
again and again.
Do you remember the dream
you had about your father
asking if you were ready
knowing the answer was no
or his standing silent
smiling everything will be alright at you
what would he say now?

Note to self
you are the divine embodiment
of the universe
you are you
and that is better than anything else.

There is a way pain becomes corroded
it is ground down by time
covered over by new scars
with new names
I cannot forget your name
to try would be senseless
the only blasphemy I might ever know
I do not wish to sin against you
if possible, I would place flowers
deep and red, in your hands
would you kiss them
and tell me how you love them so?
how can I love you in a way
that stretches forth to find you
memories, indelible and undenied
speak to me
tell me you are fine
it is lucky to not forget
good fortune that you still stay
there is a way I tilt my head
when I am looking at you in awe
you have not gone away
you have not gone away.

Tell me what happens
When the last of them fall
Will the sun cease
To share its love with the sky?
Will the wall built on sacrifice
Crumble to the ground
As we lay beneath it?
Can stars covered in cloud
Shine as brightly as before?
Or will all that we know
Fade, quiet and serene
Never to be seen again?
What will we do
When the last of them fall?
Can we ever regain
That which we have lost?

Sometimes when I am alone
I listen to the walls
and I read all of the words,
I have written
to cover me up.

Help wanted:  Teenage mother.  Needs love.

Home is where the lights in the city
shine as if they are inside of you
emanating from your stomach
traversing the spaces between your teeth
until they reappear against your lips.
Home is where the gates of the city
stretch out like arms
and cradle your shoulders
inviting you in to stay awhile.
Home is where the fresh snow
brings warmth
you could kiss the ground
you’ve missed it so much.
Home is the lover and the beloved
though you know you will see it again
you are never ready
for the weight of its embrace.

I do not know how to write about my father
be it poetry, fiction, or death threats
nothing stays down
I am sick from him.
Sometimes I quiver inside
at the sound of his voice
my body tremors when his hand
smashes my head, and rubs with pride
he is gleaming from his toothless mouth
which may be my inheritance someday
he leaves me with loss.
I watch him carefully
At any moment, at the slightest notice
I may need to escape
but I’ve never been able to run far
I am the ground
beneath my father’s feet
tethered, we move together
his face is a faded picture of my own
taken by a yellow and black
Kodak disposable camera
his father snapped it
before he walked out
on my memories of him.
my father’s voice is a silencer
always catching me in its sights
he wields it like a weapon
never laid down to rest
not for me, not for my mother
his tears are a riddle
that I cannot solve
flowing from his enigmatic aura
telling me he loves me
Father,
I honor you with my indecision.

Do you remember
your red Chevy Cavalier?
a small sweet apple
lying on the ground covered in green
and I would tunnel inside
with vast curiosity
about where we were going
mostly about who you were
how you were
so free.

Laughing through cigarette smoke
I inhaled them both.
Outside was a cat-daddy
that you didn’t believe existed
until you saw the lithe figure
dressed in blue
for yourself.
A smile smashed the window
and your hands tore open the door
above feet carrying you out.
I sat in the red Chevy Cavalier
wondering at all your ways.

Little boy
I never asked for
my, how you impress.
Your sugary smile
eye’s soft and big like Keane’s,
skin the color of cocoa butter
brown curls on your head
to soak in the sun.
Good enough
more than good enough.
Blooming with love
spread swiftly like the wind.
Heal me with your laughter
teach feeling with your touch,
and also with your frown.
Little boy
I must confess
my, how I do love you.

Time to get rid of our guns
don’t you think so?
No!
Ten splattered souls
bound beyond a westward border
like small waves contained
in an ocean’s divide.
Sad in the way Monday comes after Sunday
not in the way you legislate
or delegate somebody
to do something.
Don’t touch our control
because that could be dangerous
to the health of a body
already sick with decay
crusting at the edges
like a ham when it’s cooked
in an earth oven clicking
with rising degrees
like hands slipping through
the white in a black dot
or the silent repetition
of the ammo when it’s out.

What belongs to us
other than the self
we frightfully lay claim to
buried and heaped upon
by the thoughts and opinions of society
judging our wealth
to be less than our value.
Words do not belong to us
we lose ownership in the act of speaking
and hearing ears that gather them up
only capable of reinterpreting
the gift or the curse.
We belong to ourselves
and nearly to each other
caged by the sameness
of the struggle to exist.

                       Anwar Francis

I know what happens to a dream deferred.
Rather than dry up
or ooze like a festering sore
it yellows, then browns
then falls slowly to the ground
like leaves in the cold.

Dreams deferred do not smell
of rotten meat, or a syrupy sweet
but of cherry blossoms
and people hurrying down the street
sharing silence or words
with unnoted glances in between.

A dream deferred does not sag
like a heavy load
or even explode.
Instead it spreads
like moonlight.
It takes hold
and does not let go.

There is a bird that knows my name
each day sitting at my window
it talks to me
and I don't know what it is saying
but I know it knows my name
so I listen.
I don't move closer to the window
with open shutters
and the bird calling my name--
a little softer than before.

In the morning
I like to watch the trees,
and all through the day.
Lines on the trunk
as delicate as
the lines on my skin.
Dirt at the base
like the shadowy markings
on the bottom of my feet.
I take in a tree,
then I take to it.
The way its leaves
converse with sunlight
gleefully—smiling.
Sitting at their feet
like a pupil of Socrates,
I learn from the trees.
About stillness
running beneath the surface
like water beneath the ground.
Love and acceptance
all that I ever could be
In this place I visit often.

I am the invisible man
Ellison wrote about
haunting Edgar Allan Poe’s
subdued dreams.
Who carries a gift I did not ask for
staring take it back
into the faces of people
who treat my skin like parchment
and write stories on it
without my consent.

When a woman dies
we sense it
acutely.
The sting of a bumblebee
lingering in the long night
soft buzzings in the brain
vibrate with increased frequency
churning out spliced contralto cries
without cease.
Then the wound
which birthed a mark on your left ankle
splits open
and you fall, try to stand,
and you fall again
Backwards and down
like unwoven string
body strewn
along a second-hand couch
wide eyes
burning holes in the fabric
with questions perched on your lips

Sit with yourself and wonder
at the musings of the heart
soft tom-tom patterns
fluctuating
in the wirey veins of vessels.
Contracted tightly
at the seminal moment
of things undone.
Breathe breathe breathe
You are here
unkempt knots
loosed down your shoulders
rising with the tide.
Lay within the beach
dig deep into the sands.
In this scene
lost parables
and crustaceous creeds sinking,
stay that way.
Speckled grains
formless and void,
to be shaped
lined and caked
do these hands dare?

             Anwar Francis