At 23, I Reported a Case of Sexual Harassment and Was Asked to Meet About It a Week Later
I am told to think of him, a Black man,
a father of a two-month-old. Imagine,
as I lean into my lungs, concentrate on cocoa,
this porcelain before me. Watch steam wither. Wonder
if I can bring anything back with held breath,
if I can hold together long enough for these two
Black women to bang their fists just once
on pretend marble. Loud themselves like they do
in the movement. Like how they march
& maneuver a microphone & agitate
for another applause. I have been told
they are the map, the ministry, the matriarchs—
keep telling me, We Black women are saints.
Abandon our bodies to ascend for our men. As if
I prayed for this anointing, as if I prayed pristine,
put myself in this claustrophobic
café four, maybe, five stories beneath
him. Propped at his desk, neck wrapped rosary—
bestowed every reassurance from the matriarchs,
You are not enough god, but you are still a king.
The Soil of Grandma’s Garden
i.
Grandma once gave me plaits. Untied
ribbons once made me fly
in her yard brimmed with birds
of paradise on the island. I was five, maybe six,
when she rubbed my clothes clean, pinned
my shirt, shorts, panty to the line.
Spoke a prayer: To be love and loved.
Let wind carry each cloth off.
ii
Hair undid.
Here undone.
Stared mirrors bring no refuge, just me
in another box.
Generations apart is now our closest distance.
I am 36 and feel her flesh
on these hips, persuaded breasts, lips, tongue—
a chastising shovel. This body a burial.
Grandma bequeathed to me a beauty
we both betray, a begging
to someday understand: love’s
in the boil and simmer.
iii.
Saw grandma on her porch the other day in a photograph.
Front yard still flocked with flowers ready to free.
Fingerprinted her cheekbones, jaw, and now creased skin.
Dana Tenille Weekes
Dana Tenille Weekes (she/her) lives in the swirl of Washington, DC, where she navigates the worlds of law, policy, and politics. Her published and forthcoming works are in A Gathering of the Tribes, Apogee, Callaloo, Inverted Syntax, Obsidian, The Elevation Review, SWIMM, Torch Magazine, and elsewhere. She is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee and was a Rhino Poetry’s Founders’ Prize finalist. Dana is the daughter of Bajan immigrants and is the first in her family to be born in the United States. Say “hello,” to her on Instagram @danatenilleweekes.