A PanAfricanist Queer Womanist Collective
By Nafe Chanza
Begin slowly, said your mother.
Allow a lover’s white lie to cement
between the bricks of your teeth until
your mouth resembles the house you grew up in.
When you are only left but never loved,
pretend your body is a revolving door,
a helium balloon, your legs are made of rope.
And at the intersection of background noise
and loneliness, you will be amazed with
how softly silence settles inside your skull.