I don’t have to logic myself into… or out of rest.
Putting this here below…for the moments where the work is heavy and y(our) heart isn’t light enough. I hope we rest.
I don’t have to logic myself into… or out of rest.
I don’t have to logic myself
into… or out of rest.
As long as I exist
as a Black woman
in a country predicated on my back, my body, and my labor…
I can lay down.
like they laid cloaks and branches in Jerusalem-
excited, welcoming,
and held by the fact…
that I honor me.
That I value the generational fatigue in me
and the whispered reassurance of my ancestors
that unclenches my ass cheeks,
invites my spine to uncoil,
and untethers me from centuries of overworking.
So I fold myself
into the sociopolitical climate of this moment,
into the lack of justifications,
and I sing for freedom
into this here body.
I rest.
Because I’ve risen.
Because I’ve found shelter.
Because I am home.








Oh baby you ate with this one! From the poem to the curation this is THE one!