∞

All That Falls Doesn’t Sound

i imagine my grandfather in heaven
braiding palm leaves into fruit baskets

silenced

like he lived on earth, an heir to
the quiet place we are forced into
but cant get out of.

i thought men were quiet docile things
until their tongues marked up my body

until i too was silenced and braided
things into worthless shit that held
prettier things.

i learned to give way for pretty things
to exist loudly parallel to me and
I wonder if grandpa would have
wanted it this way

silently knotting up the difficult thing.

 

Trappings

They forgave me for not fitting into their hands—
the men that wear their shirts tucked in,
shower in the evenings and give me their backs.

I was origami unfolded and left too long in a manila
folder on a messy desk.

They made me beg for things, these men, lips sour
like overripe grape fruit. They ran their fingers
through me and tore out each page, wetting them for
fun. For a smile to appear pleased on the faces
of colleagues, and other men near vicinity. They had
a glow to them. Felt the ground cave below their feet,
my lips at the raise of their fingers. They forgave me.
For not fitting. And left.

 

This is Rain

The wallpaper yellows as droplets form
puddles from outside the window.

Lost, it folds against itself in defiance
of another wetting season—
another downpour locking big things
into pockets and covering the ugly truths
we hold on to.

The rain

boisterous in its voice, yet soft,
palpable, for their lips to hold
and press against.

It beats against our backs as we run
from it. Until we learn to stop
and let rain soak in.

 

Bitters

she spilled blood
in the middle
of the market
because you came
too soon.
——and for what?
the more they took,
the more bullets made
your earth its victim.
——us wild haired
kids go to the grave
in broken promises
as our mother’s pull
at their crown
——like more dead
follicles will bring
peace.

 

This is Rain

The wallpaper yellows as droplets form
puddles from outside the window.

Lost, it folds against itself in defiance
of another wetting season—
another downpour locking big things
into pockets and covering the ugly truths
we hold on to.

The rain

boisterous in its voice, yet soft,
palpable, for their lips to hold
and press against.

It beats against our backs as we run
from it. Until we learn to stop
and let rain soak in.

∞

Daschielle Louis is a Haitian American poet, writer, and graphic artist from South Florida: her work exists at the intersections of blackness, womanhood, and migration. Daschielle’s poetry and short stories have appeared in spaces such as Token Magazine, Rise Up Review, Linden Avenue Literary Journal, and Panku Literary and Arts Magazine.