Written by: Asante Indira

And no one has been in this garden here
No other footprints shaped by sleeping grass
No one knows this place
And I, in this dress, silk turban wrapped
---I have my fine cloth crown
and sun

No one knows the burn behind my eyes
right before I write
the round black shallow grave pressed against my chest
No man has loved me
none at all
I have all these;
the sun, the grass, and the leaves
but it is only me here in this pretty
and when solitude reminds us of tragedy
I remember how blades of grass can cut
the sun can burn
and leaves make us slip

I learn to put the lines in your hands on a throne
the deep must of exasperation, the missing length
on the frame of your body
is better, I know
My God, I'm jumping, dodging daggers
I need to find home
Rest my head in the places you've wept
This is me knocking against the breadth
of our separation
I write no more in your memorial, but in mine
I have only the swords of grass to pass the time