A BRONX BURIAL
Mami’s rage knows my asthma like the backside of her hand
my split lip ready to burst open again
I learned that there was no room for crying
in a home that was accustomed to my staggering breath
My sickness- not actually real
My sickness- a symptom of where I come from
(Relies on the Cross Bronx Expressway
The congestion of smoke a recollection
Of how white people love to leave us with ashes of their history)
Black kids aren’t supposed get sick
They swallow their coughs instead
Feel the burn in the back of our throats
Mask itself within our chests
Make it seem like I was mourning instead
a eulogy for all the home remedies that have failed us
The first rhythm I memorized was the beating of Mami’s heart whenever we
thought my lungs would fail me this time
She began remembering the heartbeats her body had lost before me
And if her body could not support a child
How could her home?
The barrio was unforgiving-
Did not know what to do with brown bodies except displace or bury them
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