Poetry is a state of suspension
and we are arms grasping —
in all hopes of wrangling,
throwing some lasso around,
a few afrotropes that
my alien essence, all adorned
in cowrie shells,
might find grounding somewhere,
be it only a page.
Brace yourself for landing,
or brace yourself for being black,
or being black is a brace
of a wounded soul,
always preparing for impact.
