poetry book

This is the field where the battle did not happen,

where the unknown soldier did not die.

This is the field where grass joined hands, 

where no monument stands,

and the only heroic thing is the sky.

Birds fly here without any sound,

unfolding their wings across the open.

No people killed—or were killed—on this ground

hallowed by neglect and an air so tame

that people celebrate it by forgetting its name.

[5/4, 21:48] Er Vishal Ramawat-lekhny: at the parades, everyone 

wants to touch my hair.

on the corner 

of st charles and marengo, 

i am cold & smashed & puffy AF 

when two white women 

try to convince me 

that they love my hair

no they really really do 

they say because it is so

black and thick and curly 

and soaking up all of the

water in the damp air. 

the mousy one says

through an alabama drawl:

gawd, you can do so much with it 

and her blonde friend says:

ya can’t do a damn thing with mine, 

won’t even hold a curl. 

she runs away to grab another friend 

and says to her: stacey, isn’t it even

prettier than macy gray’s? 

we just love her,

don’t we?

they circle me and ask:

can we touch your hair?

and then, suddenly,

just like my ancestors long ago,

i am pulled apart

soft

by pale hands 

from all directions.

—Skye Jackson