“Serenity Prayer for a Black Woman,” “Black and Blue,” “Kelly Price is Missing,” and “Light-Skin Chick Blues”

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.