For the past few months, I’ve been co-writing a poetry collection with the great, Joél Leon (we haven’t sold the manuscript yet, so this is news to most). Which is to say—I’ve had to make sure my shit is tight on the page—as that man is a hell of a poet. This project has meant the world to me, in large part because of how much Joel means to me, and also because it has been the most honest, vulnerable, and safe I have felt on the page in years.
I don’t believe in sharing pieces from the collection before it’s published, because I want the eventual reading experience to be fresh and surprising for anyone who might purchase it. BUT every so often, I write something that I enjoy, but it doesn’t feel like the direction I want to go with my poems in our collection.
This is one of those poems—I hope it finds a soft place to land with you.
doctor say i got multiple sclerosis.
and heart disease.
and sciatica.
and depression.
even got economic anxiety,
which ain’t in the chart
because america
don’t diagnose itself.
but my obituary finna say
i died of survivor’s remorse.
guilt wants a verdict.
all the niggas i left behind know
where i live.
conjure me back to the projects with a seance
call it a funeral,
call me five times,
call me a sellout
when i don’t call back.
the doorman will tell Jameer’s ghost what floor i’m on,
even in a high-rise mornings are still a haunting.
somebody’s praying for you, baby.
that’s what the women say
when i’m down the block giving out turkeys
so the mirror feels less like a jury.
baby
with enough church in it
to turn my pain
into a pew.
baby
like somebody got
my government name
in God’s ear.
baby
like somebody knees
been spending themselves
on my tomorrow.
at 2:13 in the morning
Jameer sits on the couch beside me
telling me he forgives me
as we look out on the skyline
he asks why i ain’t write about Nolan Wells
i tell him i don’t want more Black death to feed my language
what else sells Black books?
at 2:17
i pull out my laptop
refresh my preorder page.
at 2:18
the number don’t move.
at 2:19
i decide
the world has forgotten me.
what a luxury
to be alive enough
to mistake being unread
for being gone.
what a gift
to have someone call my name
and still got a body
to answer with.
somebody’s praying for us, baby
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