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.