Poetry

"Of Women."

I think of the things    
you tell me—  
stand tall, sit straight
lower your voice, lower your heard. 

My fingers trace
the outline of you—   
as the streetlights,   
seeping through our 
window blinds
continue to trace   
the outline of your silhouette.      

But it’s the way you    
refuse to say anything;   
the way your hands find   
themselves fastened onto me   
moving in motions—   
with and without me    
that your word-less words   
never fail to tell me,   
all the things I wish you never said.      

 I am invisible.  

 —    Noelle Marie Nagales
    

"Across Time."

Beneath the brick-brown
apartment buildings; 
above the asphalt colored
blocks.
    
I find you laying underneath
the lamppost—
the side of the street 
you said to never stand.
    
Buried beneath the city scene
that escapes us, flooded by
the strangers that pass.
    
The siren chimes in;
flashing colors: red, yellow,
And in between white,
You ask me if I hear it—
The melody that never seems to end.

 — Noelle Marie Nagales        

Jaray Hunt
Steel Dust
 
 
(Wear a mask if you’re essential worker or stay home)
 
I can’t breathe-
underground air feels heavy of steel dust 
blackness on the walls, you see is not me-
drug addicts back and forth 
itching for a fix or sex
used needles on the ground 
rats the size of rabbits carrying food or rabies
each silver train car is a studio apartment, 
seats are bathrooms or bedrooms
don’t sit, don’t touch, look 
deep inside the long black tunnels
where the mole people live   

Jaray Hunt
Hood Dreams
(Sonnet) 
 
take you round my way where I slang 
all the way to Polo Ground projects 
where all the young boyz hang  
just cuz I’m black don’t mean I’mma suspect
 
this is where I exchange green for the drugs 
only option for a drop-out and flunky 
black boyz raised to thugs 
making a profit off fiends and junkies 
 
this is where my black skin meets pain 
hustling for a turkey sandwich and bbq chips 
make it out the hood my only gain 
gold chains, cars fly whips
 
all my sisters treated like Queens
make it out the hood all I have is my dreams 
 

to the man who screamed at me on 118 & Park
 
you saw deep furrows in my forehead right?
i look like a homicidal woman to you?
but how could you have seen my face
i lingered a few paces behind you on the pavement
you whirled and clutched the strap of your bag
yelled bitch what you here to steal now?
you felt the bleached shadow of my craggy forehead following
haunting like the history of Harlem
not honey-chocolate-caramel melting-pot Harlem
the lemon lime gall
garlic & filth of the original Little Italy dams up my blood
just a couple blocks from here
slurs hurled at Puerto Ricans pebbles of hate swirled in the stew
you see my ghost floating around the neighborhood
thinkin i’m lost and confused
but i just moved here a couple months back
my building right there on the corner
not my building – nothing here is mine
who owns the hood
whose barrio after all this
gentry/ification – the ruling class? gentle birth?
my entry here far from delicate
 
bitch what you here to steal now
oh just passing through
is there any home that doesn’t shake
you see i just came from the Bronx
you think my subway keeps right on downtown
am i in the nightmare tunnel still or snow falling out of season
no nobility in me
a hundred years ago my genes the murk & scum that scald the pot
what did they do to rise to the top
drowned people who look like you
but you think i’m scared to be out here after dark
two bodies passing in the night
how can you tell if one is white?
is passing when your skin is light?
 
the sun rises in the east sparkling on the river
lead gray where all the hues mingle
i was once considered criminal
a woman who killed her lovers
and el barrio es macho
still walking to escape the dagger of the past
lodged between my shoulder blades
but you think the specter of my flesh is expecting you
pillage colonize settle as pale bandits do
i crossed the street and strode parallel with you
any words i had scalded my tongue
dusky dream that the race of these streets could ever be outrun
 
-Megan Skelly  

PERENNIAL CENTENNIAL
Megan Skelly


Our veins are centuries meeting
History keeps on repeating
Humanity’s 100 years seems fleeting
tide of blood never gone – just receding
 
1920: it’s all begun
We’ve just emerged from World War I
Negros coined New under the sun
& Harlem is the place to come!
 
No more terror of poison gas
or fear of wearing masks en masse
Shrapnel from artillery blasts
settles into the dust of the past
 
From rations to lush parties without missing a beat
jazz, sex & money throb deep through the streets
the roaring wave of art is a Renaissance feat
but down South black bodies still hang lynched from trees
 
Fast forward ten decades – we sit inside
a new pandemic panic grips society worldwide
store shelves gape empty from hoarded supplies
the sick gasp at droplets the air itself hides
 
mouths & hands sealed from kiss of breath
instruments of peace can now spread death
screens and social media all that’s left
to cross distance that keeps us bereft
 
stay 6 feet apart or rest 6 feet underground
overnight New York became a ghost town
except pots & pans that shatter silence’s sound
& in America it’s still just as dangerous to be brown
 
the only blessing in sight is one day it will end
just like our ancestors did, we must forge on ahead
aftermath of despair – so many hearts & homes to mend
may we spark the next cycle of rebirth again…
 
Our veins are centuries meeting
History keeps on repeating
100 years of solitude and we’ll keep believing
bloodline wisdom never gone – words stay reaching