I have decided to give you your flowers while you’re still here. A wonder–a mystic amongst Gods and the ungodly. You have always been captivating. I never wanted to sing. I never wanted to dance. But I have always wanted to write, and you paved the way for me to have this voice–my voice in a world of chaotic flows and shiftless thoughts. You have conquered a sea of endless pain and lived to testify.
Millions of people sing your songs at the top of their lungs–breaths poured into the air that land at your feet. We still stand in awe of you; so incredibly in love with you, we speak your name . . . Tina.
Legends can be born To be what legends should be You are so much more
I wrote this poem and shared it here on November 26, 2022, when this amazing Queen was still breathing. She still lives. She always will. Rest in Power.
The kids play Marco Polo without a pool Their little hands flail wildly in the October sun No one is IT Everyone chases the sound of voices unsure of what they’re trying to find
The Delivery Guy Is Dyslexic
243 is 234 to a keen set of eyes buried in the head of an amazing human being yet try as I might I can’t be in two places at one time
However, he doesn’t know this My food sits in front of a neighbor’s door waiting for me to retrieve it I send a message through the app explaining the dilemma
The digital approval of a refund chimes in I really just want to eat what I ordered without the hassle |but I’m also empathetic to the plight of one’s struggle I’ll order again tomorrow
The Dog Does Not Approve of the New Arrangement
I was feeling frisky the other night so I decided to rearrange the living room furniture Afterward, I cleaned and noticed the dog focused on this new maze inside her home
She does not approve
I nod satisfied with what I’d accomplished and my little friend huffs in disgust She sniffs the furniture for clues of sameness — I explain everything is still here
She tilts her head up to look in my direction and I can’t help but feel as though I’m being graded on my performance
I did not pass her test
This Is Not Bravery
I don’t think it brave to exist in skin the color of spilled lies and wake up to a face that never changes
I didn’t ask to bleed the same blood yet I do and authorities Other me before I can utter a word
It is not bravery knowing I can die for making a sharp right turn without a signal in a car registered in my name with all the updated paperwork
One false move and I could be hashtagged
The type of privilege that offers safety is what I envision for everyone but centuries of racism begs to have its face at the ball of life No one’s dancing . . . we’re all too afraid to move
“I’ve named them, you know?” “Who?” “The squirrels that keep coming to the stoop. I’ve named them.” “You have, have you? Let’s hear the names!” “Darryl & Delilah.”
MacKenzie’s older sister shoots her an odd look — one that questions her name-choosing skills, but the younger sibling stands her ground.
“Darryl & Delilah!? Mack, why on earth would you . . .”
“It’s simple. Remember that song Mommy used to sing when I was like 5? The one by Billy Joel, ‘Just the Way You Are’? I hear that song every time I see them running around, gathering acorns, and hoarding them under the flower pot on our stoop. Their names fit them. They seem like a happy couple — one that can’t live without each other.”
Misha stares at her kid sister in total disbelief. She can’t believe what’s coming out of her mouth, but then again, she thinks it’s best not to question 11-year-old girls whose parents recently divorced. She continues to listen without judgment.
“I see Mommy and Daddy in them. Mommy rushing to gather all the acorns. Daddy hustling to the stoop to lift the flower pot so Mommy can place the acorns there. They make a great team!”
And then the tears fall. Misha watches her kid sister turn into a mush-mouth full of anger and resentment and pent-up sadness on the corner of Circle Way and Todd St. Divorce isn’t simply dividing their family, it is changing them in ways they never thought it would. MacKenzie is anthropomorphizing the squirrels in the neighborhood now. What’s next?!
“Mack . . . it’s okay to cry. You know that, right? It’s okay to just cry. You don’t have to make up stories or see Mom and Dad in the squirrels that use our stoop for storage. You can just . . . cry.”
MacKenzie shifts her thinking head to the left, bats her lashes slowly, and leans into her sister’s personal space. She whispers . . .
“I know. But it hurts less when I make up stories.”
Misha pulls her sister into a tight embrace, smooths back the wispy hair from her eyes, and kisses her forehead.
A Cornered Gurl 
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