Queer Black Poetry

Wash Day

Run to the street corner to catch my laundromat,
Damn it!
8:00pm is their close time.
Walk home somberly,
Pondering how di rass I gonna have clothes for tomorrow.

Think about it,
Granny Pearl and her wash days.
Down by Ms Iyvette’s backstream,
a little part of the river behind her little valley home.
She used to like guh a river,
Dancing with the other ladies.
Gossiping bout Ms Chin and her fuckery price increase,
with pickney clothes, and di man dun out khaki.
But here I found myself,
Flooding the bathtub with hot water and detergent.
I googled ‘how to hand wash your clothes’, like I’m not my great granny seed.
I soak them for a bit,
Squish! Squish! I wanna make that common wash cloth sound, like a Jamaican principle.

Miss Pearl mussi a wonder from weh eva rass she deh.
Non-binary, queer,
And a wash clothes in a bath in New York City?
Individual? But to whom do they dance?
Cause behind Ms Yvette’s back stream,
She could chat with Ms Yvette herself sitting there pon her verandah.
“Ahh Yes! Mi make a nice guava jam”
Woulda do well with Ms. Chin raisin bun.
Sometimes at the river dem woulda try fi deliver,
my granny from her obeah tradition.
“You muss come service pon Sunday Pearl, I’ve seen the miracles”
Miracles, she ponders when at nights, hanging up the tripe from her early pig kill.
Market in the morning just fi have enough,
to buy some kerosene, bread, cooking oil, and some odda likkle thing.

I soak, squeezing this fabric of shelter, from my nakedness.

Never understood till now just how profound,
my washing is.

Passion fruit


I’m in need of ideas.

I need to be understanding some truths.

He called me bitter,

While I eat my passion fruit.

For truth,

maybe I was the one who caused this muck on myself.

I wanted,

                     To just love myself.

An in-between exterior,

Seeds wrapped in their jelly.

My fruit lacking passion.

For to him,

I was bitter.

Idk how to process this,

I want no more.

For all I wanted was to love him more.

This anger inside of me,


wanting avenge.

So ridiculous,


try to pressure him.

To reconcile what he did one autumn morning.

Kissing me,

but I,

was just his cheating chore.

And so my passion fruits,

grown on their vines.

To cry gives me headaches,

and if I die,

Many would be disheartened by my lack of push.

But when men like him,

only care about their nut,

not even juice this aging fruit could make as it rots.

Mr. Cultured

Mr Highly Cultured.

Mr. High and mighty,

Or Mr. intellect.

You claim to be progressive,

fighting for a right,



You Mr. Desire-able,

A man of standards,

A man desiring of his own fame.

A man playing this neoliberal game,

I see you,

I feel you,

And quite frankly you’re just the same.

The same as those who I’m fighting,

Because what fight is there to fight, without helping others,

to come into this space.

Are we fighting the same fight?

Is this an image for you?

My survival is a matter of our unknown relation to each other,

But you claim to not know me,

But I thought I knew you.

We come from the same universe,

that has birthed us.

The same race of folks who have shined,

through the disasters of life,

Time and time again,

over and over again,

same game, maybe different cards.

But you,

I think of no different from me.

Quite ironically,

The activist,

is active to an extent.

Because strangers have seen the extent,

Of my humanity.

And without hesitation or question of familiarity,

They’ve held me,

Connected to me,

And understood me.

Mr. Cultured,

take off the masks.

Mr High and mighty,

You never know,

I mean weren’t you once vulnerable,

Wronged by the world.

Haven’t you heard?

The alarms are screaming,

Individualism will be the end.

The night will not stall,

The day will speak,

And then you shall see,

That the mighty,

is really just weak.