Tell my mom I hit the avalanche with both hands,
swept up the saw dust of old white men up to my abdomen
made them listen to those who are actually losing their lives
didn’t let them insert some woebegone bs into a conversation
that extends beyond a nation or a tongue or continent

Tell my mom I ran for the safety song of the forever-nomad
swept up in the rubble of our oppressor, I never stayed still
enough to be found out or taken down, hell I ran right up
close enough to take that awful flag out of the moon, that mirror
belongs to everything, especially to water, and to light

Tell my mom I made myself in a strong set of sentences
swept up all the sorrow and suffering I’d soaked up from countless
lifetimes, outlining the architecture to create a cathedral
epicenter swaying with the don’t-let-capitalism-kill-me blues
I wove 13 tidal waves just to sound out something like: free.

Let her think I am free.

Let here know what that means.

Let me know what it means too, because I still don’t understand.

Tell my mom I made it out; scratched off my 3 dots and left, loco
out west into the pacific I turned sunfish and swam for centuries
learned to cope with myself, gave up oxygen for cool compression
always water and darkness because now I eat the light; I am sun.

Tell my mom I slept too long on the greyhound, and I found myself.

Read more great poetry from Brooklyn Magazine here



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