aaduna in exile -winter 2021 2022 - Poetry

 

Luisa Aparisi-França, Poet

Light Filtering Through the Golden Banana Leaves

 

I often push myself past the point of breaking

surging through surf

always needing to be called back from the brink.

 

Tell me that it’s ok to stop straining.

 

Swimming is such hungry work.

 

When I don’t hold the reins in my hands

I feel like a failure.

 

I think of every place where I ever felt low

wandering aimlessly through a plaza

 

trapped in the bathroom at Churchill’s

or stuck in my hometown

 

like a drop of ink diffusing into water

blind as the day is born

which is why I now believe

that the worst pain

comes from standing still.

 

Take my blood and make it new.

 

I don’t know why I bear so well

when I never even wanted children.

 

I think of you in gold

like beads of water clinging to a web

or your rings resting on my nightstand

as we spiral into a kiss.

 

Mouths parted

I am more myself under you.

 

Something about being taken care of

has always felt like a trap

where, like a river

I feel everything from you

flowing into me.

 

Sometimes, when I’m not feeling well

I make sure that my hands don’t rest on my partner.

 

There is so much contagion already.

 

I want to go back to joy.

 

It’s so hard to be let in. To let others in.

 

I see a bird’s nest tucked away

in the letter C of the Lucky Nail salon sign

and remember all of my troubles with intimacy.

 

I want to unmoor you

build like a wave

and watch every single one of your lives

 

—Paris, Brazil, Milan—

 

your friend craning his neck

to look back at you over his shoulder

with gilded eyes

 

standing in a water filled doorway

you are living in a past life

and already moving past it

in a city that looks like a warehouse

where your fingers undo the basting stitches on my suit

and teach me the word for hat making.

 

You wear me well

the way I feel sitting

in front of that Rothko painting

with its layers of rust red and buttery yellow

not wanting to think about how he died.

 

You tell me about experiential art

van living, try to take a picture

of a car speeding down the road

with a fake tail light made out of cloth

because there is beauty in choosing your resilience.

 

Fingers stained with tannin

I want them in my mouth

because I crave queer communion

where our bodies are our own

and our stars need not be linear

or near to matter.

 

Standing outside in the morning

I am moved by the light filtering

through the golden banana leaves

how it holds its own as it travels the air.

 

Because I only understand service

as an extension of someone else

I reach out for the ghost of you

curled up next to me

and am surprised to find

that I am holding myself.

* * *

Whale Fall

 

The other day I learned about whale falls

which is when a whale dies and sinks down

to the ocean floor.

 

It's an elegant turn of phrase

the way you might say someone is sleeping

rather than dead.

 

There are times when I feel as if every room I walk into

is a small death

the crushing weight of having to justify why

I should be paid enough or even

treated with some semblance of respect

after letting slip a kindness.

 

I wipe down the counters in a coffee shop

feeling for the ribs of the whale

its giving carcass.

 

I feel its pulse, the steady rise and fall.

It could feed a village, if only it cared to.

How did Jonah feel inside the belly of the whale

having been thrown overboard

after refusing to be god’s prophet?

 

Why do we think that circumstance can force love?

 

I remember seeing the movie Whale Rider.

How that little girl dug her heels into the whale's sides

so much trust placed in gentleness.

How it carried her deeper and deeper

'til she almost died

bringing her back blue and hospitalized.

 

Is that what it takes? a small death to change us?

 

I don't want to turn bitter under this clear sky

because wherever a whale falls

it's supposed to bloom.

 

I think of how thin the geology of immigrant families is.

How if one layer cracks, the one above it sinks

setting back a generation.

 

Why is it so hard to channel

the noble beast

I am trying to become?

 

When a whale falls, its bones

become a reef.

First come the sharks and fish and lobsters

to pick the bones clean

then the bacteria begin fermenting

the marrow for food

dissolving my backbone

melting my sinews

until at last, my great jaw comes unhinged

I offer up my eyes

and open

 

 * * *

 

Miracle of Becoming

 

Sometimes, I forget

that I'm cherished

passed from empty mouth

to empty mouth

I am the message

you have been waiting for

wrapped in the afterthought

of someone else's

leaving.

 

There is so much

room

to roam.

 

When I do my kettlebell workouts

to strengthen my arms

and lower back

I forget that I am glass

fios de ouro

 

fragile like

the semiprecious stone

my mother's friend gave me

her grooved fingers

holding the stone up to the light

the way someone, somewhere

held my face once.

 

You once called me honorable

and I have been chasing the Sun

of your expectations

ever since.

 

Swallowing it whole

as snakes do eggs

—light smudging

the corner of my mouth.

 

I am pure lotus eater.

 

I want you to reach me.

Plunge into and out of

my depths

reveal the true lady of the lake

(though I always felt more prince

than princess)

 

water rushing off of me

in sheets.

 

Mouth open, gasping.

 

Each layer gone

making me a little lighter

as my feet try to find solid ground.

 

Good god.

What miracle of Becoming

is this?

 

Meet the Poet

Luisa Aparisi-França (photo provided)

Luisa Aparisi-França is a queer, non-binary Latinx writer from Miami, FL. Her pronouns are she/they, and she also identifies as a demigirl. Coming from a family that is Spanish and Brazilian, being raised in the US was a huge culture shock to the collectivist values they were taught. As a third culture kid, and someone who, for the most part, slides in and out of confines, Luisa seeks to use language as a way of bridging divides. Her poems explore transitions, transformations, community, deconstruction, family, love, obligation, and the spaces we constantly create with each decision and interaction.

 

* * *

Chantel Frazier, Poet

Beloved Bruised Orange

 

Beyond our cities university is OUR land.

            Land spectators don’t come to see.

Media shows toxic negativity within our community, but not much of the millennial minorities that are trying to break free from the day to day struggles they meet.

We all started out on the right path, a lot of us became alumni and others dropped out.

Soon enough we all would see what the real world was about, and that our broken school system only taught us to take a test before the time ran out.

The homicides and attempted murders that reside on every side of our city are only justified to someone less witty.

The families of the dead that are scarred say that they have taken this hoodstar thing too far.

We’ve marked some of our fallen Martyrs, giving them praise for the loss of their life while staying true to the gang.

In hustling street smarts come to play when making a living.

Most educate themselves learning how to legally stack their wealth, others fail falling victim to jail.

When we all see reality for what it is we will grasp a better view to the other side, where we all will meet at the finish line.

We are hard workers making constant money moves, and where I come from if you snooze you lose.

Continuing our education, building our own businesses.

We want that house on the hill too, some of us know too well what an eviction is.

Many of us are breaking out of the cycle we were forced in because we understand what’s at stake.

We all have lost classmates, friends and kin that we’ll never get back again.

When someone in our community is labeled an animal or a criminal for surviving the best way they know or can, the cycle continues and most boys won’t turn into men.

We are not rotten, our reputation is bruised and I’d like to show another view.

So if you're in your own bubble on top of whatever hill hopefully this book will create a different feel.

If you get an outside look in, hopefully you’ll be willing to understand that for some of us, this life we live is a cycle we’re forced in.

 

 * * *

Single Parent

 

Being a single parent with children in high school isn’t so easy.

This is the turning point where most teenagers found out life wasn’t so peachy.

Reality hits for most of us at a ripe age, like if I don’t go to work these bills won’t get paid.

I’m a single parent working three different shifts to make ends meet.

So Please don’t look down on me if my children are running the streets.

It’s not that home isn’t where I want to be, but the fact that no one else will do it for me. Three personalities, three different needs, emotional, physical and mental.

It’s my job to divide and provide.

Giving them not always what they want but always the necessity.

I give my guidance through my struggle, smile through my pain leaving myself enough personal time to cry in silence.

Overworking myself to balance out my wealth, putting aside my health.

It’s hard when it’s only you, but as a single parent it’s just what you have to do.

 

 * * *

Chose Me

 

I didn’t want to be a part of the hood, it chose me, I lived by the code as I played the streets.

I already said fuck school, no more picking up pens now I buss tools.

The hood was my family, I had no father figure to look up to.

There was my big bro, the one I ran the streets and did dirt with.

He never really taught me right from wrong in the hood, just how to make a buck quick.

And that gun had me ready to show off, I bet the hood would go crazy when it’s beef and I let this gun off.

I’m the shooter, number one on the most wanted list.

Visions of being the only one with cuffs on my wrists, I refuse to go down as a snitch!

Before banging, the streets looked so appealing it was just a hangout spot.

Well at least that’s what I thought until my friend got popped.

Losing your close friends to beef leaves a stain on your heart. After all you live by the code you die by the code, it’s up to you to play it smart.

“You are what you eat” goes along with who you hang with. So I wasn’t surprised when they said I was gang affiliated.

Now I’m a target for the other side, the police & those other guys.

Take time to understand why things happen to learn your lesson.

Don’t get lost in your upset and get your life taken away by either the system or a smith and Wesson.

 

* * *         

 

Broke

 

Broke is what they’ll call you.

You run out of money and it haunts you.

What this word does is break you down mentally.

Making you feel like without money you aren’t where you’re meant to be.

Don’t let someone else’s interpretation of “broke” stomp you.

You can have all you need and have no green.

 Keeping in mind being broke is only a temporary thing.

 Not like breaking something that you won’t be able to put it back together again.

 But if your bills are paid it’s okay if you won’t be going out on the weekend.

Those who let money rule their world, end up the most empty inside with a drawer full of diamonds and pearls.

Because they thought material things were a necessity.

When their money was gone so was their feeling of being complete.

 Don’t worry about someone else in a different lane or you’ll start to see the need to compete.

 Remember money doesn’t grow on trees and it’s up to you to choose if it will be your priority.

 

* * * 

 

Re-Entrification

  

We can rebuild this city from the inside out.

Let’s buy back the block, show them what our hood is really about.

Building our own empires, getting our names up.

If that means we have to change up and let our goals rearrange us, we must.

We can’t be pushed out or let ignorance become what we’re about, they expect us to give up without a doubt.

So it’s up to you, do you want to be a part of the new view?

To have something to pass down to a younger you.

I know I do, if I have it in me then you do too.

To walk into a business owned by your peers of the same race.

A hair salon where you walk in frowning and don’t leave until those fluffy light skin hands rearrange your lace.

How about a bakery? Where treats by Trice are baked and displayed faithfully.

Going to a restaurant where Balla cooks from her personal menu.

Chocolate faces that resemble you.

Orchestrated dance classes by Ken where you can join your child too.

Wearing designer clothes from Jhom’e & Cmenchi, this was meant to be.

Let’s stretch our bodies and our minds with yoga sessions from Courtney.

It’s been a tough road but with art we are reminded.

Those portraits by Rahm & Jaleel will leave you so inspired.

Showing us our roots, adding our beauty in each picture.

Wide nose big lips,

 You know, the most common chocolate mixture.

I’m saying this because I want to be a voice that speaks this into existence.

We can build this city back up as long as you pay attention and listen to your intuition.

 

 * * *

Meet the Poet

Chantel Frazier (photo provided)

Chantel Frazier is an African American poet, born and raised in Syracuse, New York. After her high school graduation in 2013, she enrolled at Onondaga Community College. While attending, Chantel completed courses in English, public speaking, general psychology and American sign language. In 2014, she left college to join the workforce as a certified nurse’s aide. Growing up on Syracuse's south side, Chantel faced personal struggles as well as witnessing her peers' challenges. Although her peers had come from different backgrounds and circumstances, they were seen in the same light by many. She grew to understand the view regarding her community was covered by a veil that could only be lifted by someone willing to speak from an unbiased point of view. Discovering this in her early twenties, Chantel depicted the world around her gathering the personal stories of her peers, immediate family and her own into a poetic explanation of life during and after high school. Ms. Frazier sheds light on the societal misconceptions surrounding the teenage upbringing of African American students, washing away the idea of a cyclical bruised community never waking up to their calling of healing themselves…

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