blackgirl on mars: notes on a life in copenhagen (or how my alienation brings me closer to people).

The Memory of Mother By Lesley-Ann Brown I don ’ t know Why you Don’t tell Me- From The past In which I see. The silence Is dark And Haunts me, ‘Wakes me up, no longer dream. I don’t know Why you Won’t stay. I don’t know Why you Won’t say. To get the gods That keep You quiet, Keep us Locked up, In this Silence. I don’t know why you won’t tell me From ethereal space I come, Through the ages   Divided, Through   time since begun. But still again we stand in hope- Looking for what can come to be. Hoping that in the distant future, We will clearly see: But what happens to a people Who turn the other cheek Who learns to love Her enemy Who learns to dream asleep? I Who grow Gods From the roots Of   Their hair Who fly flags Of different colors In the air I cut the cain Drank the rum In the rain, wash Their clothes In the river ...

Dear Kairi, When your daughter's daughter comes home broken, please do not tell her she is force-ripe. That she is an ole-ting. That she is a bat. Or that her mother is wothless. Do not tell her she is ugly because she yells the colors of Africa or India. Please do not beat her or rape her or ridicule her. Instead, ask her, Who did this to You? And take her in your arms & MOTHER her. * Kairi is thought to mean island and what the Arawaks - the original inhabitants of Trinidad, called the island.

Ancient Love You are the color of the earth That beckons me To the bush Brown and black limbs From Africa From India Walk silently Among paths Never penetrated before. Gently we move the Large blades Of leaves Aside Gently we move them Aside Using no force One with Nature, The wetness of The earth Cools the sweat Of my toil, The orchestra of Frogs The backdrop to This scene, Green so high It tickles the Underbelly of the Sky, until   a drizzle passes gently by I am cooled, I stop to rest, Only to see you There Brown and wet and Relaxed Waiting for me Because years ago we could not meet but now right now we can. Copenhagen, 2010

He’s from Harlem, she’s from Brooklyn. He said he loved her and that he’d take her away, sometime, that summer. “I’m thinkin a house,   beach.   Jus’ you and me.”   She can’t even respond.   The magic he speaks lulls her to believe.   He continues: Sometimes I feel you the only person I could talk to .   She smiles a smile that contains within it all her heart. Many said that he didn’t do much, but they were wrong.   Neighbors saw him, day after day comin and goin from his mama’s house. Handsome boy.   But what does he do?   Shame, he should be helping his mama .   They said he didn’t do much, but they were wrong.   He was a poet. He took words and hung them up in the air like multi-colored christmas lights.   His words   fell upon ears like candy-hued confetti.   He was the poet of El Barrio & even if his neighbors didn’t understan...