poetically, i feel the weight of words on the paper. heavy like marble resting on your chest. as i talk i

 

write around myself, a swiveling symphony of words all of which avoid. and then it sinks. i sink, within

 

to my self. feeling the weight of the words on paper. heavier than black bodies being carried

 

down to their graves. and this weight of words, suffocates me. i must act– sing– dance– write– read–

 

perform

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within this.. weight. one day my grandmother told me, my great-great grandfather was lynched. breath

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caught in my throat. a true dealing of cards that i did not know were so close, yet so removed. it was

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just– as it was– he was lynched. he worked on the railroads, caused some trouble, perhaps he was

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a drunk. or maybe he touched a white woman the wrong way at the right time. or maybe he had debts yet

stashed money in his pockets. but she said, she said it, like it was

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his fault. like the family knew, my grand mother, and her grand mother knew.. it was his fault. he

had brought this weight upon himself and when he

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could no longer breathe underneath the stone that sat on his chest. it was on him. the burden too big for

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his hands, too choking for his throat, yes too burdensome to uphold. . . yes it was his fault. it must’ve

been.

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and so when i feel the weight of words on paper. in attempts to write what the mind can’t hold, what the

breath can’t speak, what the hands can’t carry.

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i remember, as a little black girl, i deal in burdens. i must too, carry. or it will be my fault when i am

lynched too.