Black History Month is to blackamerica
What a menstrual cycle is to a woman
For 4 or 28 days
One is constantly reminded of the pain
That comes from inhabiting
That body
That the blood that flows from her womb runs
Red
The color of a flag made of 100% cotton
For 4 or 28 days
One is reminded of the tears that trail the Atlantic Ocean
That her suffering is as deep as any sunken ship belly
It is within those 4 or 28 days
That the blood of her ancestors interrupts her favorite white skirts
Shows up unannounced at the corporate dinner parties
Blood will do that
Period.
Blood is the biggest silent siren
Flashing lights
Blue and
Red
And when one bathes in blood
Over and over
And over
Again
That makes one a marked warrior
She wonders why there is no FOX newscaster team to broadcast this war that wages within her body
But if a tree falls in the forest
And no one is there to hear it, does it still make a sound?
What kind of foolish question is that?!
If you were to be detached from your roots
Expelled from the only home you’ve ever known
Wouldn’t you go down kickin’ and screamin’
Instead she lays on the bathroom floor
Gripping her emancipated uterus
Crying to her porcelain god
For it is the only one that can unchain her from the pain that traces through her spine
Like a number two pencil
Constantly trying to engrave
“I am free” into her memory
Trying to forget that it was this porcelain god that served Eve the apple that warm Friday afternoon
Swallowing amnesia like the crackhead inhales crack
Her sobs are melodic to an audience full of sheep in cheap white collar suits
Their eyes see a body
But no purpose
A heart
But no home
My momma always warned me that in this world
You are born with two strikes against you
Your womb
And your blackness
Talk about killing one bird with two stones
Black bird
Why you wanna fly blackbird?
Don’t you remember that they cut your tree down over 400 years ago.
Alice Luo, Collin Anderson Memorial Award for Poetry
“If I could use three words to describe myself they would be: ‘black’, ‘feminist’, ‘rebel’. The most important aspect of being a poet is finding innovative and alluring ways to incorporate the complexities of my identity into my writing. That’s when it becomes more than words on a page. My writing becomes my truth, and my words come alive.”