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.