Limbo

by Aja-Monet

I saw a young boy die once
like an ant,
he disappeared beneath my finger
behind the window
on the 17th floor.

Do you know,
what it is like to be used to
the sound of limp bullets
resting in the torsos of arrogant rib cages?

I watched his circulating tissue
soak the pavement
from up there in the sky - we weren't heaven.
We just didn't have cable,
just pictures of Jesus' open arms on the wall,
pale yellow paint.
Plastic covered couches,
tiny kitchens,
and senior citizen friendships
and a buzzer,
oh yeah, a buzzer.

Our elevators smelled of
arroz con pollo
and cigarettes,
soul food
and piss,
apple pie
and steamed fish.

We weren't heaven,
we were the things God
saved for last on His dinner plate.

I thought maybe I would break out of his thigh,
or forehead
like Athena,
like a headache sold off the bodega counter
with a sword
of Goya beans
to pierce bellies
that knew what it was like to make something of nothing.

I used to walk to the train station
school mornings,
here,
there is no such thing as sexual harassment,
just old men that never grow up.

Little girls grow into women
and know that the difference between a cat call
and love
is the attention it gives you.

When a boy falls in the ghetto
it makes a sound
only the soul can hear
and I hope the boy knew
this wasn't heaven.

I hope he knew God wanted so much for him.
I hope he knew that I saw the breath leave his chest,
the amber divorce his eyes,
the Nike Air Force Ones lay stagnant after shaking
good bye to Harlem.
You have left your mark,
young man.

I fear ever dying and not letting the world know I was here.

I used to think we were human beings that had spiritual experiences
- but there was something about watching a boy die -
I realized we were spiritual beings having human experiences.

There are far too many survivors
and not enough living.
Far too many preachers
and not enough giving.

Where I'm from,
The nature of a man
is to fall and get back up again.

This is unnatural.

Get back up again!

The laces of your Nike's hold onto each other like orphans
shimmering over telephone wire.
Just above the right upper corner of the moon
as I stand
where you once lay.

I'm hoping this isn't heaven,
I know it isn't heaven
the words don't come easily.

And I can still hear your blood
on the concrete.
dry and singing
lynched and bent
cooing and whisper.

This isn't heaven,

in heaven there is no need for blood.