(Bop after Afaa Michael Weaver)

I want to feel at home in my body
To feel alive—immune to the constraints
To love, embrace my reflection, repel dimmed light,
yelling from the shadows, free-tuned
to the melody of my skin and the song of my aura
I want the queer calm in the center of my being

The landscape of my body is worth more than enduring storms

I had been told that I did not own a body—
that I was an object for show and tell—
a hidden gem, exploited, extracted, sexuality erased
Black like Black love, Black like Grandma’s thick strands,
But womanhood, a cloak with no real home for me
limbs detached, grabbing for figures in the distance
a reflection of hope not seen waned in the constructs,
the images of me haunting, heckling, hollow

The landscape of my body is worth more than enduring storms.

A cage broke free in a simulation, reprogramed algorithms,
narratives hugging to a frame, outgrown refusals of self
what was a bone pile collecting dead skin, lives—
reconfigurations, reverberating movement,
patching, piecing, premonitions of flight
embodiment dreams where mined bodies reunite         

The landscape of my body is worth more than enduring storms