This, my too-weak notice. I am tired with comparing my body to heavy things, of holding death like my grandmother’s house. I left the smile in another poem after a professor said it made no sense. Understand: I am done writing about the black girl emptied. I am off to find a brown boy with his ghost still in him. Last week I slipped and busted my mouth on the sidewalk and if you want the blood I will have for you my red wet grin.
Ashanti Anderson (she/her) is a Black Queer poet, screenwriter, and playwright. Her poetry has appeared in POETRY magazine, World Literature Today, Foothill Journal, and elsewhere. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and winner of the 2018 Tennessee Williams/New Orleans Literary Festival Poetry Contest. You can learn more about Ashanti’s previous & latest shenanigans at ashanticreates.com.