Poetry is Inherited in the Bones - Hakimah Malam

Says my Father's fatigued bones driving the NYC taxis. Says his entwined spine refusing to sleep.

Says his political rage filling my homework assignments. Says his poignant words infused with my

mother's dominant thighs.

Says the ruffled winds shutting us up. Says every hungered breath taken away from us all.

Says the kettle breaching and gasping smoke whirling in old native memories. Says every one of our

tears the government said

tasted sweet. We held ours bitter. Seeding our customs. Urgently sprouting through our swaying black

bellies.

Says the Bronx news channel we watched on the weekends. Green tea with brown sugar arousing his

throat. Favorite lullaby holding warmth.

Say the prayers we dug beneath our ruined guilts. Allah was our only source of hope from wombs and

eludes.

Says the Toyota car with its durable pulse. Driving amongst the highways to Manhattan waxed figures.

Every building light was fast-paced. They took turns eating our fetal selves alive. Left us with nothing

but mockery.

Says the school boys calling us big-lipped monkeys when I circled for new friends. Left nine-year-old me

Paying the price with bleached marks.

I say sorry to my Father I inherited my lips from.

Synonymously mine. Where the birthing moon shined on us negros on worst days.

The kind of love that is divided through whaling seas, hailing the pass of

flavor on the dinner table.

The vessel of a country we soared through the anchoring halt of borders.

We paid our debts for peace, yet we are overdue.

The city streets ask Why we’re too loud

And the rhythm of black heritage sweeping the grounds overpowers that voice.

The nights my family skinned razorblades to burst a noise

And a breath that was nearly taken away.

That is how a Black body continues to live.

Through the hardened throb of melanated roots hip-hopping the streetlights.

The African bodies with afrobeats

Drumming up beats to the sound of home.

The overflow of seams seasoning

The afterschool rush of riots.

This isn’t home yet.

For every vocalization of truth stretched out.

Every sonnet we’ve preached to the cops

On the blocks, is their way of tearing it apart.

So I say our bones, so black and spirited

Are also poetry.

We are villains because we are poets.

Because our voices continue teaching the world how to listen.

So we speak. Before they crystalize our skeletons

Into a hush.