1/7/2018 Poetry by Nichole Acosta Carolina Tarré CC Meeting the Parents I've met them in digitized reconstructions of memories past they look happy and hard souled. I've met them in my wife's shoulder blades their legacy heavy on her back she carries mommy's cooking in her hands daddy's generosity in her heart. I've met them in the retelling of her dreams in the Creole of her speak in the way she hugs questions government takes vacations in bookstores. I've met them in her laughter in her tears in her writing and how loudly she loves like they did. At The End of The Rainbow Everyone tells you there's a pot of gold Waiting but there's just the emptiness a hateful stranger has followed you to after all the other parts of the rainbow have broken away and you are a lone reflection of light the darkness will try to swallow you whole so you tuck your pride under your skin to survive Do. Not. Trust. People. Who. Say. They. Do. Not. See. Color. -Amber Maillard People who say they can't see that the complexity of my complexion is a blended artist's palette of colonists and slaves of Loving v. Virginia of sunkissed melanin v. tanning salon v. bleached skin of the reason to pull a trigger v. the reason to negotiate nicely of lives that matter and lives that don't of the reason to be followed in shop v. the reason not to of the reason to have hair searched at airport v. the reason not to of being told to speak English or go back to your country v. never being told either of those things If you don't see color you don't see leaves changing and the difference of how you and I have experienced life you don't see this poem you don't see these people you don't see the problem. When You Wake Up Without Her everything tastes like grey sounds like papercut looks like excuse for air freshener feels like empty. when you wake up beside her everything tastes like periodic table sounds like uncaged bird looks like crescent moon feels like bass. On Being "Too Sensitive" It's funny how onward is one word and we keep trying to move past the past but it grips us bumper to bumper car we snap back to reality that's just the Snapple cap facts of life suck it up kid don't sweat the small stuff. How many beads of sweat does it take to birth an ocean? How many ships have you slipped into a bottle to bury your baggage by the boatload? How good are you at growing gills? You've never been too sensitive you just perspired too many times to tally and now you're a grand canyon a scarred landscape so grandiose no one notices when they break you anymore no one notices when they break you no one notices that you are broken and you were born whole. ![]() Bio: Nichole Acosta is a multicultural, queer, diabetic, poet whose work captures human nature in its best and worst light. Writing for those who have felt left behind in the margins, she has been performing spoken word poetry solo and in collaboration with musicians and other performers from New York City to Singapore since she was 11 years old. Comments are closed.
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