Takings

"Who's been taken from you?"
Leeka and Aisha asked
as we walk to my house
after school today.

I took them home to do
homework, give them a snack
as my first official duty
as mentor.

"Who's been taken?
You know, not from
getting old or dying regular
but taken away with a gun
or something."

No one, I say.

"No one? Really?"

To have a conversation
about not if
you've lost someone to violence
but how many people you've lost
with two eleven year olds
makes you pause.

"I think the world is really good,"
Leeka says, "and really bad too."

Yeah, I say.

Because there should not be
so much grief
in one neighborhood,
in one city
there should not be children
who know so many murders
that it is normal

the world tilts on its side
in the sky
the planets are falling
but the street
thinks there's nothing
unusual

Baltimore Stories

It has been one of those weeks where I have been overwhelmed by what my kids deal with on a daily basis. I continue to admire their tenacity and perseverance and wonder why it sometimes feels so helpless to be and adult without any answers.

Baltimore Stories

Two weeks ago
a car flipped Teya
off her bike
in her pink nightgown
when she dashed
out without checking

One week ago
she shared in morning circle
I don’t have a mommy anymore
she’s in prison

On Friday
she was in court
to testify against her brother’s friend
because she witnessed him with drugs
she was back in school by eleven
my granma was fussin’ with the judge
she confided she don’t want me talkin’

I don’t want her talking either

But this is just one brick
in the crumbling walls
criss-crossing the city
only a mile from the
shine of the Inner Harbor

This is just one daughter
of the city
one voice of the small multitude

Teya lives three short blocks
from my house
but I could live on the moon
the milky way
resting between us

Turn Around Luck

Morning.

Teya throws up in the middle
of opening circle.
Nell knocks over her
pink cup full of water.
The phone keeps whining
for attention...
the normal daily attendance
but then explaining Tyra
has to leave early and
Teya will be back to class
her grandmother wanting her
to stay longer and then
Ms Emily?
Yes!
Pick up.
Yes?
The boot. They're putting the boot
on your car.

There have been times
when I've had parking tickets
scattered through my life unpaid
when this would not be wholly unexpected.
Today I could think of no ignored bills.

Someone comes to watch my class,
I run downstairs.

The social worker is trying to stall
the booters, but it's already on.
Why did you put the boot on? I ask
What should I do?
Parking tickets they mumble. Call that number
they point to the orange signage
tacked to my car.

Back upstairs I dial while my class reads.
Your call will be answered in 29 minutes
the line drones. I can't think of
29 minutes I'll have together in this day
to wait for answers.
I hang up.

Daya knocks over her water.
Teya goes to the bathroom
and throws up again.

Ms. Emily? the phone calls again.
Yes?
Can you pick up?
Yes.
They took it off. They came back and
it's gone.

The day sommersaulted
over a zigzag morning
into a green afternoon.

Winter Scene

I pass this tree on my way home from school.
It reminds me off how much work there is to be done in this world.
It has me looking for spring.

End of Year Tally

“As of last night, 274 people had died by homicide in Baltimore…”
- The Baltimore Sun, January 1, 2007

We hover in the upper 200’s
with the yearly index published of the dead
more men than women
more black than white
42 victims per 100,000

We watch the news--the crusty blood,
the yellow tape, the handguns
we can hardly crane our necks
to the other side of the world
where the bodies pile up
we can hardly change the compass
of our thoughts
when the cousins and uncles
are shooting and shot out
when the children are tight-fisting the faded obituaries

We work to make a difference
they shout from the trenches
What we’re doing, isn’t working
and we don’t know what to do

We want to throw up our hands,
run far away, bury our heads
in nostalgia

There is only tomorrow
steel and permanent

We hardly dare
to hope

Poetry Thursday: Histories of Houses

The neighborhood and city that I live in has many abandoned houses. In fact, the house I live in was abandoned until our recent renovation. I often think about the lives of these houses, their history, their demise. I believe in their resurrection. Somehow this poem took on more than I intended. My attempt at this week's topic, If these walls could speak...


Histories of Houses

It's 1900.
Row houses spring up
like flashcards in red brick
and link elbows
open their narrow doors to families--
who rush in with their lavender dreams
and cram the stoops
on warm summer evenings.
The whole city leans back
glimpsing the too blue sky.

The trees stretch tall and
the children have grandchildren
who skip to the corner store
for handfuls of candy.
They bring in formstone
to cover the cracking brick
and push back the years.

But then it's the drugs--
and the uncles fading
away to the grey streets
the stealing of the copper piping
from the shut-eyed basement windows.
That's when the leaving begins
the packing up of the station wagons
to drive to the suburbs to find a
new life

The grandchildren's children
glance over their shoulders
as they hustle to school each morning.
In art, they paint planks
with pinky curtains and
turquoise dahlias
to frame the many empty windows
For hope the officials beam

These skeletons--
sagging and leaning
hold the story of a century
and look at tomorrow.