sunrise/sunset / real / the delta / the black rest (a sketch)
by KHALIAH D. PITTS
in Fall 2018
Rita Harper, "...Am I My Brother's Keeper?" 2017
sunrise/sunset
brown bodies
round bodies
birth babies
raise babies
til they are no longer babies, just
brown bodies
lithe, strong bodies
uniformed bodies
swaddling guns
like they’re babies
witness war
and cry
like babies
and die
still babies
real
my baby opened his mouth
and i gazed upon the dry riverbed of his tongue
his teeth, he ground in pain
had become almost dust
his breath, warm, stale and abrasive
blew pebbles of collagen
and they fell, pieces of snow
come to rest on the cracked pavement of his lips
my baby's mouth is a ghetto
and it is thirsty
i opened my blouse
and his eyes latched onto the empty turned out pockets that were my breasts
my skin pruned and dried leather
the taste of my tits, i imagine
is that of bare trees
the gems that need fall from my flesh
to his lips
all mined, all gone
my baby's mouth is a ghetto
and it is hungry
love,
i know i look like home
but the fire left me with only my bones.
the delta
weatherman said the storm is coming
and that's all we talk about now
the storm
the first waters danced along the rain chain in my chest
i felt the wet kiss the crystal bars on the way down
the storm began in my throat
the rumbles, the dark clouds my words had to fight against
that lightning crack, that sharp ache, that voice crack
it began in my throat
and puddled in my belly
weatherman said the floods are coming
and that's all we talk about now
the floods
i could feel the water seep into my veins and
infiltrate the tendon and tissue in my limbs
my walking was heavy, i was so waterlogged
the flood, it
pushed against the door of dermis
i panicked
i had no sandbags
and no storm cellar to hide in
so i let my body become an angry sea
and bruise at the pressure, the pounding surf
weatherman said the hurricane is coming
and that's all we talk about now
the hurricane
then the winds came
the wet panting, the howling
the head thrown back, that howling, the winds
my windows shook with the effort to hold back the waters, the gale
and the rain, and they are splattered with rain
and they gave up, they gave in surrendered to the panting winds
the rain, the winds, the howling
the screaming
the moaning
weatherman said the end is near
and that's all we talk about now
the end
the waters ravaged me
and beat my body into submission
i could hold on
but the howling pulled me
the levees had broken
the bayou had burst
and all that, all that was, i knew
was gone
embosomed by the waters
and i let go
and gave myself to Tefnut
i asked her to deliver me to the reeds
she told me to pray for Aaru
and that's all we talk about now
Aaru
when i prayed, i asked
does it rain in heaven?
the black rest (a sketch)
give a moment of
peace, forget a life of blood
hope: stronger than fear
they like the way you
wear your black. and blue. splashed with
garnet. art is you
and death becomes you
the breath that crawled from your eyes
rubies from your chest
ten lil’ nigga boys
and lil’ nigga girls. times ten
times ten
times ten
to the tenth power
all these burnt pickaninnies
decorating the streets
blacktop.
black bottom.
black out.
the Black Death / the black scream / the black shout
the black movement
the black rest.
they tell you
you is the color of death.
khaliah d. pitts is a writer, food educator + consultant. a philadephia native + lifelong artist, her work is dedicated to preserving health + culture, building community + documenting the stories of brown + black peoples.
khaliah co-created Our Mothers’ Kitchens, a culinary + literature project for Black folk in 2016, which currently counts itself among the 2018 cohort for the A Blade of Grass Fellowship for Social Engaged Art.
her writings have been published in such publications as Blackberry: a magazine, The Body Narratives, The Fem Lit Mag and From Our Kitchens: Recipes from the Philadelphia Assembled Kitchen, on which she also acted as editor.