Meditations on a New York postcard

Meditations on a New York postcard
when migrating thoughts reach across borders to
the land of
apple pie,
stereotype
bullies its way to the fore,
freeing its bright lights
to terrorize;
loosing its
skyscrapers
to stalk the premises
of international
imaginations.

My voice is
silenced
beneath the rumble of
the subway’s roar, forcing
foreign ears
attuned to
‘yo’ and ‘word up’ to
believe my soft tones
un-American

My motions map out
a different America
as I beckon curious eyes to lower and linger
in places not sharpened by
concrete blocks and
winter winds.

Listen dear, I am of a Southern bent
accustomed to green outside my window
sun on my back, hello’s ringing frequently during summer’s twilight
evenings.

The New I am from is Orleans…
Bayou born.
I am here
just for a short spell
cuz these city streets
hold life captive
and keep love at bay.

New York’s
multilingual tongue
may charm some
but whenever it belts out
its desperate
serenade,
my ear detects false notes
and it’s cracking voice
hopelessly fails to
pronounce my name

---

ALL SIGNS POINTING SOUTH (for Trinidad)
New
Orleans
keeps
a tight
grip
on
her
children

plying us
with
sweet music
and divine
sauces till
bloated stomachs
quell the urge
to move
on.

Yeah
we fat
and
lazy
here.

Newness
can’t intrigue
a crescent city
native when there’s
file gumbo
in the
pot.

 

I
dance
beyond the
hometown
stupor;
one leg
poised for flight,
one hip
supporting
travel worn luggage

causing questions
to break out,
bursting the
bubble of
southern
comfort.

Where you
from?
They wanna know
where I been

I slipped out
from between
her fingers

 

I say,
jumped down
from her clutch
and followed
the road
North.

To places
that don’t
got no
kinda hold
on their
children…

let them
run wild
and free.

but I’ve
turned back
South now,

on my way
South-er than
Ma-ran and Pa-ran,
past Maw Maw and
Paw Paw too.

Past places where I
chewed my
teething ring,
scraped my
knees, and
broke bread.

Further South
than Marie
Laveau’s tomb.

My Mother’s womb.

My Father’s grasp.

My Brother’s laugh.

To a place of
thick tones and
impassioned
speak

a place of sun
bronzed skin and
fruit drenched
mornings.

A place where
they don’t ask me
where I’m from.

A place where
my ghosts can not
catch me
for they are
bound by
geography.

Across salty
seas
to a place
new
to my
mind

old
to my
heart.

Foreign,

but
somehow

still
home.

---

IN MY DREAMS
Smells manipulate skin,
like chocolate music on
delicate peach sunshine.

Urge produces honey,
like spring
milking mist
from life’s waxy winds.

Night rips,
day heaves,
apparatuses beat.

Pants soar as we
chain these stormous
visions to our moons.

Sighs slip
from exhausted
lips.

Sweat licks me
& shadows you like
a thousand
diamonds.

Kiini Ibura Saalam