reMembering Mulatta. Christy Sampson-Kelly

      

      reMembering Mulatta

      Christy Sampson-Kelly

      Apprentice House

      Loyola University Maryland

      Baltimore, Maryland

      Copyright © 2013 by Christy Sampson-Kelly

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission from the publisher (except by reviewers who may quote brief passages).

      First Edition

      Printed in the United States of America

      ISBN: 978-1-934074-20-6

      Ebook ISBN: 978-1-934074-23-7

      Design by: Chloe Germain

      Cover art by: Genevieve Sampson, fiberart

      Published by Apprentice House

      Apprentice House

      Loyola University Maryland

      4501 N. Charles Street

      Baltimore, MD 21210

      410.617.5265 • 410.617.2198 (fax)

      www.ApprenticeHouse.com

      [email protected]

      Dedication

      This is dedicated to my rebelliously reasonable parents for going against the script and obliterating, for me, this notion of choosing. Through their gracious allowance of my existence and growth within my in-between-ness, I continually become without diminishing any one of my-selves.

      Section 1: Once Bound

      Manuscript

      In ever changing conversation

      collectively

      we delve into present realities,

      new awareness exposed.

      In repetition,

      boredom erased,

       more awe

       more wonder

       more dis-covered.

      The weightless thread

      that attaches my-self

      to original understanding

      still welcome.

      Its litheness

      compels past re-turns

      fresh with possibility,

      unwritten the time before.

      I Hope not to be Forgotten

      Where do I fit

      in this mended world

      stitched together by my people?

      This world

      of beautiful mahogany

      so smooth and rich

      one could get lost

      in the feel of it.

      This world

      of dark knowing eyes

      with knowledge so deep

      that diving in

      merely allows one

      to tread at its surface.

      This world

      of thick, dense kinks

      cropped short

      revealing intricacy,

      strength of character.

      Where do I fit

      with my buttery complexion

      and devilish eyes,

      with my overabundance

      of sandy colored curls?

      This I ask

      in full support

      of the reclaiming,

      as mere reminder

      that I exist.

      Knowing

      The twist of thinking’s experience

      begins belief’s meander

      for transcendent conceivers,

      inescapably great thinkers.

      While sauntering in gracious anticipation

      of the welcoming,

      understanding’s verdant reach

      acceptance’s embrace.

      Pondering how unmistakably heart-wrenching

      it is to know.

      The Exchange of a Whisper

      somehow

      it is different

      although i can’t be sure

      my moves

      definitely more intended

      carefully constructed

      to reveal only my true self

      entering

      it is unadulterated black

      the moonless night

      of a veiled village

      troubled

      i step in neither direction

      for fear of losing

      gently

      a cool breeze

      carrying your voice

      tantalizes my spirit

      reaching far inside

      to existing places forgotten

      drawing me deeper

      i let it lead me

      the essence of those

      entering before

      rushes through me

      offering promises

      escorting warnings

      images of my own experience

      so meticulously concealed

      confront me

      urging my retreat

      reaching with-in

      you are there

      eyes, penetrating

      skin, glistening sable

      coming closer

      We touch

      and suddenly

      all is lucid.

      Section 2: Mis-placed

      Come Home

      Words echo

      in a mind snowed under,

      breathe

      and I am home.

      A screeching stop,

      abounds short beings

      into the street,

      bitter cold wind abrading cheeks,

      noses, foreheads.

      Dashing toe spirits

      unapologetically abandon their vessels,

      leaving immobile, burdening stubs

      at the ends of feet

      presencing their absence.

      A fleeting glance

      through