Midnight Deja-vu

I don’t want to go back,
But I am unsure of forward;
Frustration meets me
In this state of being
Home is where the heart is,
Still, a place is needed,
To be,
For one to be lifted up
By land and
Held by space,
That which is affirming and accepting,
And welcomes you to its setting,
I am working on that for me,
For us,
After adversity jettisoned us
From where we had
Only meant to be temporarily,
Somehow, I had forgotten;
I am here
and now looking,
For a place,
the next move.

Butterfly Returns

Butterfly went home
After their first flight;
Home to cocoons
And caterpillars,
Who each longed to know of their possible future,
But could not yet understand
What air beneath one’s wings
Could feel like,
Each at their own time to cocoon
Metamorphosis awaiting at their own pace,
In their own way;
Not all will get to fly
For some time is much shorter
But they all change,
They all in the end are freed
Of corporeal vessels
Of various form,
Even if they will never know
The flight of a butterfly,
They all may appreciate
The diversity in their shapes
And the cycle
That unites them all.

The Nostalgia Swing

The creaking of the porch swing brings me back,
And forth,
My brown limbs outstretch to power the rocking
And I feel the air brush against them,
Like when I was small
And my legs dangled from a sun-bleached wooden swing
That like my maternal grandparents
I wish were still here today,
This was their house,
The rural abode
Where I, their first grandchild,
And a then newly dubbed city-kid, would return
Again and again,
With memory of toddlerhood here,
With chubby caramel-colored baby legs
Sitting in and exploring , and feeling the fresh cut green grass,
on this same land;
This was my first home
It always will be,
It was where my mother carried me in body,
Herself breathing in country air,
In this her family home,
It is where I swing now,
With a new bench beneath me,
And older, lengthened tan legs
moving me,
Back and forth,
Still I have always been
Between places,
In movement,
Like this swing,
And that is what I aim still to do,
To swing back between here,
And my New England home of familiarity;
Between the two places
Distinct accents call me back,
And forth,
incantations to return again
And again,
The swing with its own creaking accent calms me
And keeps me in place for now,
Both driven and pulled by nostalgia
While I figure out best laid plans
To be
In each beloved place,
In each their own time.


I was critical of my result,
Fearful I was deemed less
less inclusive,
Less open-minded,
less accepting,
less anti-racist,
Than I see myself,
Than I wish to be,
What can I fix?
What can I make be
What I know is more authentically
But check,
Check one,
Check one, two, three,
There’s more to the picture than I had perceived,
There’s a place I reside where I am alone,
Where shielding my differences
Is how I make this
More comfortable than were I out bearing all,
Being me,
Being free,
I’m enclosed in the wild open,
Still a black girl in Maine,
A rare, wild specimen,
Afraid of being tracked,
hunted by the
whom I’m swimming in,
Marginality makes me weary,
Getting closer to authenticity is my aim,
But duck and weave is the game,
I am no less,
Just extremely
Identity under duress

Missing Home

As much as I find formation,
In the Ivory tower that surrounds me,
There is something missing,
Begging for completion in this equation,
It is a longing for familiar arms and body
For me to embrace,
And the comfort of love in the flesh
Made closer to my being,
It is a need for the very souls that drive me in my seeking,
It is an irony of needing to leave to find what is most needed
Is what was left behind,
I knew this already,
But it is the felt notion that brings this to brightest light,
In missing home.


Familiar buildings
I’ve never seen the insides of,
Sky scraped,
Smoke stacked,
Green bridge stretched out,
Connecting lands manmade,
Autumn gold filigree along city streets,
Red brick pavement under
History we breathe
History we bare, with every beat.