Serenity Prayer for a Black Woman
God grant me the serenity to accept
the things I cannot change for I cannot change
the kinks and coils of my hair,
the skin that criminalizes me,
the body reduced to what it can do and who for;
I cannot change the way home feels right now,
the way what was always underneath,
bubbled up to the surface and choked us all;
I cannot single-handedly change the laws;
I cannot make them give us what we are owed,
and I will not change
my body’s response to rhythm,
the twerk of my ass to hip hop,
the sway of my hips to jazz,
the double clap of my hands in my church,
nor the tambourine song rattling at my hip,
the volume of my voice in a room,
my tongue, the histories it holds,
the length of my stride,
the spread of my hips;
for this is the way I reclaim space
in a world which seeks to reduce me
to the sum of my parts.
Black and Blue
I know what it means
to protect and serve,
to be black
and blue,
to be necessary and despised,
to be called on and sent away,
to be in between,
to protect and serve. my body:
a shield
a weapon
a fortress
a forum
a politics
a playground for fools
a holyground for saints
a portal
a temple
a haven
a incubator
a graveyard
a trap house.
I know what it means to be a shield—
two less black men
became statistics
became prisoners
became loopholed slaves
My silence made their futures,
their right-nows possible:
the babies they hold, and
the wives that don’t know
they’re married to rapists
have me to thank for their happiness.
no this wasn’t a gang thing: 3, 15, 18.
don’t play these numbers they are unlucky ones.
women should tell their stories
even if they do only talk to themselves
and to god
in the end.
I know what it means
to give up my safety
for the security of a little bit of yours; imagine
how many more are like me
saving you and killing themselves
with secrets swelling inside like cancer
like sarcoma
you who did not protect me
would not protect me
yet call me queen in the street
sister on the internet
want me to call you daddy and king
instead of your own damn blood-bought name
though you see me as they do
a mammy
a bitch
a whore
a angry
a loud
a ghetto
a rachet
a baldhead scallywag
a unmarry-able
a committable
when you could see me really
see me
and all of us who love you
KELLY PRICE IS MISSING
They searched
and they put it on the news.
They called her a 22-year-old-girl—
And they found Gabby Potito
less than 30 days after she didn’t come back
when she was supposed to.
This is justice for white women,
to let them be little girls for a while,
and yet
Kelly Price going missing is not panic-inducing
and remains a social media rumor.
She was a friend of mine, of all of ours;
we forgot about what would happen tomorrow if we didn’t find her;
we left her ass somewhere in the heartbreak hotel,
figured she’d find her way back to us on her own,
as if black women do not need a search party sent out sometimes.
we proposed she stay missing,
keep us panicked and concerned.
mariah couldn’t even be your hero,
could have never made it happen,
could never have been a Diva in ’98 or ’00
could never have been dubbed the Queen of Christmas without Kelly
and my generation wouldn’t even know the isley brothers without her
and later, kanye could have never avoided the ultralight beams without her
it’s like the more money she came across the more we refused to see
And then, Kelly was reported to have never been missing at all.
She was at home sick, according to her sister.
The pandemic got Kelly too,
and we all should have been grateful
our friend got up from that bed with her lungs and vocal cords.
it could have killed her added her name to the number,
but being sick is not as important as being dead
and does not produce a search or a protest.
so, we found her,
but we still didn’t get to have her.
Light-Skin Chick Blues
Why I had to be a light skin chick?
a yellowbone
redbone
light-bright-damn-near-white
melanated only slightly
not mahogany or ebony
just a light skin chick?
I couldn’t even get no big ole ghetto booty
as a consolation prize nor honey or green eyes;
at least then I’d be an exotic queen
I couldn’t get no wide hips either?
No big titties?
a white mama to explain my hue?
I’ve always wanted to look like real black girls do.
Instead of this buttered cornbread,
milked coffee,
caramelly,
light brown sugar,
hazelnut, brew.
I wanted sweet licorice,
blackberry skin.
I wanted my juice
to be sweeter within.
That way, when you see my skin
the master’s sin
isn’t the first thing on your mind;
as if the only way to explain
my golden amber flesh is to recall
her-way-back-when rape
or her “seduction” of him
as if she could avoid it,
blow the rape whistle and call in the law
as if any of them could say no,
one dropped or middle passage fresh.
I wanted to be dark and lovely
just like the rest.
Born in Charleston, South Carolina, Raven M. Gadsden is a Geechee Girl. Her first collection of poetry, Beautiful?, was self-published in 2009. Currently, she’s a PhD candidate at the University of South Carolina working on her dissertation, as well as a new collection of poetry. She lives in Rock Hill, South Carolina with her wife, son, and their dog. She loves crime shows and crafting, food, friends, and family.