Fruit of the Spirit

For the love of all people with different fruits but the same spirit. All hanging from the tree of life but have been watered differently. Vines. Willing vessels. Vulnerability. Love. Fruit.

practice.

9:30 pm. Richard’s bedroom. Shelves filled with books. Pictures of him and his father when they were young plastered on his mirror. Posters of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King. He looks at his reflection brushing his waves. Practice. Day 1.

“Damn, shawty you fine.” No… No… Um… How about... “That ass lookin real nice today.” No, Richard, that’s worse. “Does your left eye hurt? Cause you been look right all day, baby” Okay. No. She might slap me. Um, ooo, “Hey, Kamya, I just wanted to know if you’d like to possibly help me on this science project?” Okay… solid. But how will she respond though? Is she gonna be like, “Boy, bye! Ain’t nobody wanna help you on nothin” cause you know, that’s how girls usually respond… or maybe, yep, the usual, “Boy, you can figure out that project ya damn self. Nerdy ass.” Yeah. She might respond like that. Doesn’t hurt to try. My face might hurt afterward but she touched me! Okay, but the real question is what am I going to wear? Ahhhh, this shirt gets the ladies. It’s my grandfathers! Nope. I look like Bill Cosby’s next kin. This shirt? Plaid gets the ladies, right? Cool. Alright. Jeans or slacks? Slacks make it look like I’m a thug going to church. Alright, my nigga, jeans it is. Dark wash. Light wash. Shit, why does it matter? Okay, shoes. Airforcessssssss. Bet. It’s set.

blackberries.

11:00 pm. Kamya’s room. Vanity filled with makeup brushes and contour kits. Clothes scattered. White walls slowly turning yellow from cigarette smoke. Maroon sheets and covers. Legs crisscrossed on her bed on the phone. Practice. Day 1.

Melanie, girl, he’s not going to like a girl like me! Let’s look at where I came from, hellllooo somebody! You’ve been to my house before, girl. And where do I live? Exactly, in the heart of the streets. Girrrl, he goes to church! Yes! Church right up the street on 10th. I am so not saved, sanctified, and holy enough for him. He’ll probably just view me as that one ghetto girl, always in pajamas, and has nun better to do with her life besides giving girls lace fronts in the mornings and occasional wig making on the side so I can pay for college. Like, let’s be real here. How should I approach him if he ever comes up to me? “Ayo, bighead! Come here” No… that’s kinda mean. “Uglyyyyyy, I got something for youuuu.” No… that makes me sound like a creep. “Hey, Richard, I was wondering if you’d like to help me on this science stuff… like the project in Mr. Peters class?” Yes, girl me too! I like that better. But how will he respond though? “Um… I don’t really know you like that so no?” or “You cool and all but I got other things to do” I know he’s not the type to be all up in my draws. Ugh…

peaches.

“Some say the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice.”

5:00 am. Gerald.  Nike duffle bag packed with Gatorade, snacks, and basketball shoes. Two kisses, one for his Michael Jordan poster and one for the air. Collection of air jordans and Nike boxes. Signed basketballs and gold medals. Practice. Day 1.

Michael Jordan once said “I’ve failed over and over again in my life… and that is why I succeed.” Can’t blame a brotha for living off of that motto. Every single day, baby. Gotta make that shot in order to not get shot at. I live for that court. Ya know, I don’t really trip off nobody. Not no bitch. Not no nigga. Not even blood, bro. It’s grind season, baby. Every single day. And when it’s grind season, you don’t let nobody get in yo way. Oh, yeah. I’ve gotten used to the five am practices. They build character, forreal. Like, I feel like without it I wouldn’t be sane ya feel me? You know how people smoke weed, party, and drink and shit… like I mean that’s cool for them but to be on this court? To hear that ball go in the hoop so swiftly is my high. Nobody is gonna push me to make it out here, b. I gotta do it for myself. Sure, I got family. Where dey at when you need them though. Like I told you, not even blood. They say blood thicker than water? This basketball has stuck closer than a friend. Can’t beat that. Alright, I’ll catch you later bro. One. Peace.

blueberries.

“I say the darker the flesh, the deeper the roots.”

9:00 am. Aabha. Allah. Dark wash jeans and black hoodie. Crumpled up pieces of paper, journals, and more journals. Roses and caramel apple pops. White sticks and gold jewelry. She stands in a full-length mirror. Practice. Day 1.

Subhaan-Allaah wa’l-hamdu Lillaah wa laa ilaaha ill-Allaah wa Allaahu akbar wa laa hawla wa la quwwata illa Billaah. Glory be to Allaah, praise be to Allaah, there is no god except Allaah and Allaah is Most great, there is no god except Allaah and there is no power and no strength except with Allaah. Okay. Whew. Let’s try this again. This poem has to be memorized. This is a once in a lifetime shot.

Caramel and Buttermilk

“Mute. No words spilled out of my mouth like the water faucets I use to leave on after washing my hands. No words could form like the pot I made in third grade with clay. My eyes. Meer pupils of brown like molasses and whites the color of porcelain. Staring into the distance, into a reflection not of my own. Rug burns and soaked pillows infested with a scent of belonging. I was nothing short of a miracle. World flowing of milk and honey. I was pouring caramel and buttermilk. Forgive me. I talk a lot now. Years of a mouth zipped shut like the black jacket I put on with my hoodie up and head down because what does life have to offer. Forgive me. I send texts in a paragraph like form and I can sense sad energy through a simple “hey.” Love me. Let your ears catch my mouth full like buckets of water from a leak in the ceiling. Let my words be a representation of my heart, vocal. Love me.”

Will they understand that though? I have rewritten this so many times. So this has to make sense to them.

My name is…  

cherries.

“I give a holla to my sisters on welfare. 2Pac cares if don't nobody else care.”

Keep ya head up.

game day.

1 pm. Richard and Loyola High School meet once again. Practice is not practice no more. It’s game day. Dark wash jeans and sweater with a plaid shirt underneath. Hands wrote with a black sharpie but sweat making it a black mess on black skin. Blackbird scared to fly. Blackberries scared to produce. Day 2.

She actually looked at me in my eyes. She even extended her hand. Look here cause I sho was not gonna give shawty the time or the day if all she did was roll her lil cute ass eyes and walk away. I underestimated her, like forreal. She’s really genuine. I want to get to know her. I am not trying to be a lovey-dovey, dude. She’s different. I’m serious, man, she is!! I told you plaid gets the ladies! Man, bump whatever you’ve heard about her. We meeting at the library this weekend to work on this project. She cannot be what everybody says about her. No, I am not trynna get in her draws dude and I ain’t giving you no money on no bet either. She smart and I promise you, we gonna get an A... Nigga… mchh bye.

“Why you wanna fly Blackbird.”

4 pm. Kamaya and her back porch swing. Peaches fine like summertime. Pajama pants, scarf, and favorite bunny slippers. Watching the sunset is her therapy and phone calls are her venting sessions. She holds a napkin with ten digits but her homegirls come first. Day 2.

You will not believe what this dude just gave to me, girl. No!! His phone number! I can’t believe he actually gave me the time of day… exactlyyyy. Girl and guess what? I didn’t even wear makeup today. Bih yesssss. The makeup was off and I didn’t even forreal look all that cute and he still agreed to be my project partner. Yes, yes, yes I know to be careful and “cautious”. It sure ain’t be the same since ol’ dude died. Man, can’t believe its been almost a year. Yeah, he would have loved to see me happy. Right. All I know, Melanie girl, is that we’re going to do so well… should I call him to confirm our library date? Oo that sounds so weird saying that… Okay… I’m about to do it... I’ll call you right after.. Bye, girl.

5 pm. Gerald at his place of high. Pumping himself up before he hits it. Two passes. It’s his turn. He puffs and makes his shot. It’s game day for him. Two kisses one for the air and for his cross necklace. Blackberries creating juice to fuel. Day 2.

LeBron James once said, “And winning is a huge thing for me.” Shit, it’s a huge thing for me too. Me and my niggas here, we barely win. At anything at all. If you not dribbling a ball or attempting to rap about some wack shit then you ain’t gonna make it no way. But I gotta do this. Shooting hoops ain’t just somethin I do, bro this is who I am. Gameday. But it ain’t competin against another team, every month, I’m competin’ against myself. I love basketball and everything but sometimes I wonder what I got to offer other than this. For now, this is all I know. Let's get it, baby. Let's get it! One. Peace.

“If you'd only understand dear. Nobody wants you anywhere”

7 pm. Ahbha. One Mic. One Love. One Sound. Vocal cords an instrument for sisters who couldn’t… play. Her, Allah, stand covered with vibrant scarfs, and lights strung across purple ceilings. Cherries improving the vision of what’s to come. Bright. Gameday in a poet's way. Day 2.

Standing up there makes me feel so alive. The ability to exude radiance from just a simple eye glare before beginning. I am the fresh and alive spirit for those spiritually dead.

*written April 6th, 2018*

post still under construction in hopes to one day grow strong in my vines to create more fruit in the spirit.

love. -Shakira