sum’n (or sunflower seeds & hot mamas)/my muva (or James, Audre, Gil, & Nikki)
by XAVIÈRE R. SMITH
in Spring 2024
Julia Mallory, to take flight and live (“Maroon Choreography” series #1), 2021, acrylic on unstretched canvas, 7 in. x 9 in.
sum'n (or sunflower seeds & hot mamas)
I heard you got a penchant for infatuation with elements of danger
so stilettos and stab wounds?
slap harder than gunshots and tattoos
bite marks-n-bad jawns-n-taboos
real live like fuck you and ya mans too
still sweet like d.c. before whites moved
still cold like steep tech and snow suits
slow down these still ski mask streets
still blocks could hear Jesus speak
still rotting like black bodies on state property
you a reminder of great decisions
and fronto leaves
crumbled ‘erb like the sidewalks and streets they won’t repair but raise fares just to get home
you the type of slow bounce that won’t get gone
still chopping in the names of those who ain’t got places to be now
deceased still lethal
the streets still need y’all
& vacuums was rollers first
hate the game not the players
that’s how it’s ‘sposed to work
we still cut rocks on bought back blocks
trust fund stops still can’t unload glocks
canada’s geese are getting robbed
so you get down or lay down, baby-
south bronx
souf-souf-bronx or
SOUF-east
SOUF-SOUF-east
watch how you cut your eyes before you end up on 8th in 16ths
they call me criminal from blocked numbers and gilded backrooms
wards cross the waters, be real stuck like taboos
ain’t seen me touch shit but case my walks quick
like I can’t buy this bust down cause I came in from Shoe City
like I can’t eat at The Cut by Puck cause I crushed by Murrys’
oh, I can’t carry?
but you can
you tweakin’
jih wellin’
Niggas here really ain’t buying what you sellin’...so what’s tea, forreal?
lemme stir,
I’m bout to spill
you as down for the brown as a poster “yes we can”
next to a no-trespassing sign & a not in my front yard semi-auto special
if it was up to you
the city wouldn’t know me
ya’ll talk about
“safe streets”
but you build off cacophony
façades cracked & phony
honestly, you don’ need a wall
north west-side city don’t act like east exist at all
you scared to cross the Douglass
won’t walk by the station
complained about The Farm from inside your plantations
you not hip forreal,
we been so;
these the breaks tho;
I’m unforgettable, babyyy-
you see?
your streets don’t vibrate
your halls don’t resound without me!
I’m the beat of this city,
the junkyard never closed
the backyard still cranking
the Godfather gone but please don’t be mistaken
I’m bout as known as can be
these streets gon always run heavy,
they love me, they won’t force me-
they can’t divorce me
and neither can you.
just like water for chocolate.
My Muva’… (or James, Audre, Gil & Nikki)
I put that
on James, Audre, Gil & Nikki
on contemplation & being free
I bet you wonder what it’s like to be, (like just… we)
have BEEN-
to reach as far as the stars themselves,
to have read them to freedom
to have been knocked to the pavement
mauled and some more shit,
to watch a populace who ain’t fuck with us
build up off us
then talk back bout better
reckoning bootstraps should have had their necks wrung tough like the nooses were leather
I bet you wonder what it’s like
to have a collective voice as loud as the sun is bright
(spoiler alert: it’s tight)
but
i wonder more,
bout Toni & Lucille & June
& the breadth and depth of black womanhood
bout every bated breath & square of beaten pavement
irony of colonizers calling out criminals and vagrants while doing the same shit-
I guess you didn’t know that footpaths & warpaths look the same when
they talk bout your babies
& fools love the sound of applause they ain’t earn
more solid than Aaron’s well-earned iron urn
I know you wonder,
but let me remind you
our essence is
reminiscent of the greatest punch you never felt
the hottest pot on watch &
boiling over- because there’s just enough energy in the chains we shed to move em
we’s tired, but still groovin’
on Harold’s
on juke joints
on block parties
and block building
and vibrancy
and the lens from the perspective of those behind it
on your televisions & mini visions breaking apart revisionist history
as resonant as the blood-red sands & toiling black hands that built on this land.
on mamas
on muvas
on hoods
on folk
I swea’
the blood in these veins is thicker than the skulls you stole.
and the lives you took.
& the shells you moved
on the sea that just claimed you
on the skies that bathe &
waves that crash,
you can’t move my black ass-
I’m out by choice
Can’t still OUR VOICE, miss ma’am-
‘cause this?
Ain’t ordinary business,
though I don’t mind ya’ll misery.
love a good ki.
ya’ll hate it,
and still love me
you can boo Moechella
and we’ll still do better
than your best class
where that work?
we outsiiiide
ain’t a chill in your spirit
you mad?
we hear it
all your built up frustrations-
poor you, boo.
we still real LIVE, FOX-5 And the News still ON…
Xavière Smith has a deep love for Black authors, poets, and creative writing that was spurned from the development I gained through mentorship under Abiodun Oyewole of the Last Poets. I am currently pursuing a Master's Degree in Social Work with a focus on Community Administration and Policy Studies—and my goal is to use that learning to improve the conditions of the communities in which I was able to survive and succeed.