Poems by Jaleesa Johnston, M.E.Ch.A. de Vassar

Poems by Jaleesa Johnston, M.E.Ch.A. de Vassar

On a hot morning, melting butter near the flat iron
They go up
Short, long, small, big
Rounded up and bound like my cousins
Some tight, some loose
Coils of mettle wire springs

My cousins are bound to the Negro Root

Not a single prayer of salted drops
Not the hissing snake sound
Rising above the scent of burnt ancestors
Carried through smoke to the heaven above
Could break
Unravel the strength that survived straight chains

So moving coils
Day to Day
Fold and twist over themselves
Falling into my face
Making everything dark

This darkness that covers me
That grounds my feet deep through asphalt,
Below rocks
And into the still-growing kinks
Of the remains of my ancestors
Cannot be a curse

For the unanswered prayers
For hair that is not mine
Was long ago answered
With something truly mine
A history so tangible
And so strong
That I grab onto it

And feel its coils between my fingers
And at the center of my palms
Still moving with life

I know this past is not dead

And they go down
Falling freely
Running in different directions
But still bound together
Like my cousins
At the Negro Root.

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"Picking Up My Old Pen"

It hurts to write
When the pain seeps down through my pores
First inflaming, then numbing the nerves
With a tremble followed by speeding trains of blood
Busting recklessly through my system
Deep within layers and layers of red and blue tunnels
Hollow now, but must have carried my life at one point

Sometimes, it’s too hard to write
When my eyes, barely open, clogged with sleep
Cannot read the hieroglyphics between the ink spills on the page
But can only see the water flooding my eyes
Red with stolen life and belongings
Rushing out from between the cracks of the broken dike

It hurts to write most
When I expect to feel a flow of release
Relief accompanied with a worn-down sigh
Like throwing a chair across the room
Braking the thick silence as a it hits the other side
Shattering into flying splinters and broken pieces

But instead I hold my breath
Still waiting for that tired sigh
With my stomach still boiling
My eyes still burning
My neck still throbbing
And my fists still clenching, trying to shake the frozen cold

And that horrible monster
From deep in my gut
Deformed and grinning with a green eye
Sinking its nails deep into my esophagus tissue
Firm in the gashes as not to slip when I swallow
Gripping and gripping
Till he climbs his way up and out of my throat
Forcing my jaw apart
Bursting

I hate to write

--------------------------------------

I stand in front of you
Naked

On display

My hair out
Chest bare
My soul exposed

Clutching my pen
I undress

And gazes fall

Down at my core, bare self
Spreading open
No shame

And you look upon me

This white black tall curly-haired girl
Parts her lips
And spits

Carried on my breath
My words flow

And I am exposed
At my weakest,
Strongest
Moments

As long as the blood of my ancestors
Pumps through my heart
My soul feeds
And lives to tell truth
Unique to you and real to me

So I stand in front of you
Naked
On display
My hair out
Chest bare
My soul exposed