MANTRA

(314 Day)

Wrapped and tongue-tied in the space of my teeth

St. Louis etched in my thigh from Engelhom Street

Cobbled streets of Benton Ave. The dirt Mississippi River mud pies underneath my fingernails 

-segregated stations of the left and right hemispheres

Ferguson’s Freedom Now battle cry is a timeless silent wail…”Cry baby- cry BABY”-wrinkled creases of my eyes 

My reflection never appeared in the arch, yet my bloodline’s bloodline nestled every brick

I’m so Saint Louis.. evil pains – racist landmarks tattoos,  yet the Saint in me stays.. refusing to let grand daddies dream die.. a home of no home.. a welcome of silent retreat tucked in the hill of The Ville, the corner parking lots of Wellston.. the old Sears building..Dr. Nash’s examining table…

My vein is set of the burnt ash of Homer G.. soul pounded of Calvary 

Wretched segregation, black boned abuse-redlined 

The stench of deep red blood-stained riots.. rising to forget, begging to be lost and rested on a street corner bench.. shifting through thoughts of the Greyhound and 13th; coiled and curled in a fetal position, one red shoe one bare.. I lived housed on streets that had no name- no cracks, no concrete until Daddy laid the brick 

Irony- ironic-wicked revelry

I’m so St. Louis that I call a home that was never mine-“Mine”

Restless soul soldiers buried in the barracks of racism clutch-stuck bones in hateful dirt (the irony of this fight) with whispered battle cry and tarnished medal. But this is an honor?- release the dove-it is trained to fly back…open beak

(Hunger prevails)

…always