Our home is not a home when the sun goes down.
The way darkness gives birth to angry hands.
The way those knuckles howl against our cheeks.
The way statistics
can be twisted
into her.
Or her.
Or her.
Or me.
The secrets
hidden within
every crevasse of our home.
We are told to be quiet.
But we keep breaking down
in those parts of our house
Where the secrets are kept.
We have wondered what it feels like to feel safe
All the while knowing that we will never really know
Instead we have learned to study shadows.
To read facial expressions
like a precious
message
of what to say next.
How to duck down in silence
How to out smart death.
We know how to do this.
We have been out living men for centuries
Because for centuries our hips have told stories
amongst themselves.
Myths of origin.
Advice on how to be brave against fury.
Ways to swallow ourselves whole.
For centuries we have smiled at one another in our native language.
Giving each other hope.
I bet you didn’t know that
We believe in our own God.
Our own stories of Adam and Eve.
That We tell
And we tell
so that we will not forget ourselves
It is true that Adam came first
but
before there was Eve
there was April.
And she was not afraid of snakes.
And she asked for what she wanted.
It is true that Adam came first
But it is also true that God and Adam stared aimlessly at each other
Because Adam ran out of interesting things to say.
And when April came
Made of God’s flesh
God’s blood
She and God would talk for hours on end
as she inhaled.
And sighed.
And Inhaled
And sighed.
We of the April tribe
Know how to talk to God.
So when they come into our homes.
All words
All knives
All hateful eyes peaking
Out of their masked intimidation
into our bathrooms
or the space behind the passenger’s side of our car.
When they watch us
they seem to have forgotten where we come from.
Because we did not come this far
without knowing how to shift shapes.
How to outrun the wind.
How to dive deeper than the sour cackling hands that bind us.
How to untie our own knots.
Our scars speak mountains that our mouths do not.
I bet you didn’t know
that for centuries our hips have told stories amongst themselves
the legend of what God said to April in the garden that night
He told her,
“Laugh a little bit louder
Hold onto yourself until hurts.
Write your grandmother’s name on the back of your knuckles
So that every time you have to sock oppression in the face
It will not forget where you come from.
And April it will come
Violence spilling out of closets
Violence underneath the stairs
Violence disguised as
Fraternity parties
Or a happy marriage
Or private tutoring lessons.
Remember my valuable strong April that when the world
will hit you instead of kiss you
Remember what I have told you.
I will put my lips just beneath the surface of the earth.
Know that when you are being beaten
or laughed at
or abused
I am kissing your footsteps.
Every time you move.”
