Before I died,
I was verified.
Paid with
blue checks,
my name
spelled wealthy.
Once millions liked me
and followed me,
I had a reason
to live.
*
I slaved like happy.
These Black knees
bent.
These Black hands
spent
seasons
on the altar
of gods
who felt
virtually
real.
These Black fingers
pressed
keys
like music,
like they
first learned to do
in the 6th grade
back when
Ms. Jackson taught me
that typing was a rhythm,
a dance you choreograph
to say something
toward an end.
Pacing through
public school
classroom,
cliche posters,
walls painted bland,
she sang to me.
“Semi, semi, semi,
space”
“A, a, a,
space”
She drilled me
to remember
that my leftmost finger
goes on “a”,
rightmost:
Semicolon.
I still sang her song
every time I worshipped
in the sanctuary,
every time I fixated
on stained glass
windows
held in the sweat
of my hand.
Windows iconic,
windows veiled
by curtains
laced
with the good stuff.
No wonder
the high was insatiable.
No wonder
I could never keep
the colored windows
closed
without craving the
next wind,
fleeting.
*
Blue and white
branded
more
home
than the sky.
was a bird
flying free
til’ it crashed
into glass,
hashtag
#deception.
framed pictures
with fragility
#feltcutemightdeletelater,
parentheses “if I don’t get enough likes”
and captured
moments
made
to be liked
rather than
to be lived.
*
Oh, my sanctuary,
a solace,
a swallowing
of synthetic substitute
to secure
my soul
with status.
I curated my life
for others
to confirm
that I was worthy.
The moment I died
and traveled
beyond
my last breath,
God confiscated
all that I treasured
and burned it
as worthless.
*
If I could go back,
I would amass
more matter
than applause.
I would choose
resting
in the God
who knows me
well
and deep.
I’d drink that
Spirit water.
Loved,
Secured,
Living.
Roots & Hope 