My Poetry

Alta Vista

I think about the mornings it saved me:

a purple dinosaur in the morning.

a big, yellow bird in the afternoon.

 

old plastic bowls full of

warm milk and colorful cereal residue.

loud weekend living rooms.

 

cooking pies with cold dirt and pebbles

in the white, hard plastic house with pink

shutters in the backyard. Long legs

 

above the thick roof of the house, arms

stretching up towards the dark and thick

orange sky with the help of the metal, squeaking

 

springs on the trampoline that was a compromise

for a built-in pool your mother was afraid you,

or a robber in the night, would drown

 

in. Black Bratz dolls in glittery heels

driving pink convertibles across the hard

carpet of a purple bedroom.

 

plucking skinny splinters from old benches in

quiet parks. dancing in circles

on eight wheels on polished, wooden floors.

 

locking the bathroom door and hopping

on the sink to take selfies in the mirror

covered in greasy fingerprints.

 

a fake broken mirror. a real black girl

with skin sharp like shards and

salt and black pepper in her heart.

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