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A Note by Raegan Fordemwalt

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The house-Warsan Shire

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I don’t realize I’m starved

for the color until the blood

washes up on the beach.

I’m craving red but still

haven’t seen the creature,

just the quick whip and slither

of its tail in the wake

—and then there I am,

facing the skin side

of the animatronic shark.

The slick apertures of its eyes.

The mythic teeth.

The anvil nose beating

the deck, cracking windows.

The shark, like the moon, is

pockmarked, unstoppable,

never showing its hidden side.

Surely space is just another underwater,

the messages we send from satellites

a bleeding haze of infrared:

This is my blood type,

this is where I keep my body at night,

and I tell no one about the times

my body, taking over,

stands waist-deep in the surf,

some wild need inside me

ticking into place.

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All that she said was true

All that she said was true

Give her some time, give her some space

All that she said was true

All that she meant was good

All that she meant was good

Give her some time, give her some space

All that she meant was good

How you reacted was right

How you reacted was right

Give her some time, give her some space

How you reacted was right

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I’m Going Back to Minnesota Where Sadness Makes Sense

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I’m Going Back to Minnesota Where Sadness Makes Sense

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the children of haiti

are not mythological

we are starving

or eating salty cakes

made of clay

because in 1804 we felled

our former slave captors

the graceless losers sunk

vindictive yellow

teeth into our forests

what was green is now

dust and everyone knows

trees unleash oxygen

(another humble word

for life)

they took off

with our torn branches

beheaded our future

stuck our breath up on pikes

for all the world to see

we are a living dead example

of what happens to warriors who

in lieu of fighting for white men's countries

dare to fight

for their own lives

during carnival

we could care less

about our bloated empty bellies

where there are voices

we are dancing

where there is vodou

we are horses

where there are drums

we are possessed

with joy and stubborn jamboree

but when the makeshift

trumpet player

runs out of rhythmic breath

the only sound left is

guts grumbling

and we sigh

to remember

that food

and freedom

are not free

is haiti really free

if our babies die starving?

if we cannot write our names

read our rights keep

our leaders in their seats?

can we be free? really?

if our mothers are mud? if dead

columbus keeps cursing us

and nothing changes

when we curse back

we are a proud resilient people

though we return to dust daily

salt gray clay with hot black tears

savor snot cakes

over suicide

we are hungry

creative people

sip bits of laughter

when we are thirsty

dance despite

this asthma

called debt

congesting

legendarily liberated

lungs