Poems by Paris Weslyn

Sweet Tea

I have a strong feeling this will not last, because that is what we have been taught by our mothers and fathers. Nothing is infinite. Or at least very few things are. And love probably won’t conquer our cruel nature.

I have a strong feeling this season will end, because every season ends. That’s what we have been taught. But maybe our Winters will turn into Spring so quickly that we won’t even know we’ve made it until well after we are sipping sweet tea in the heart of July.

You wipe sweat off your furrowed brow and whisper to me, “this is refreshing.”




There is honey in your bones.
I am here to suck the marrow.
I swam through an ocean of tears and bathed in loneliness to strand here cloaked pure in despair
before your altar and longing for the tenderness housed behind your eyes.
Sleeping under warring stars I wait for your golden voice to make the sun rise in me and echo
through the halls of my consciousness.
Ever-present: I hear you loud and clear, and radiant, and proud.
Where did you travail?
Where did you break those chains and fling them far across the heavens?
Admiration escapes from my pores.
Admiration rages down my thighs like some extraordinary waterfall, forming a cool basin around
my feet for you to wash your face.
As I swim through the forests of your imagination, moonbeams beckon me over the edge to slip
inside your sticky, sweet goodness and drown there.

Paris Weslyn is the return of Spring, creeping forth to cast out the darkness of Winter. She is a Black woman refreshed, reborn, and blossoming, whose purpose is to respond to existence with awe and wonder.