Zenith Project by MakedaY

I a poetry anthology

by Makeda Yezalaleul

n this poetry anthology, you will read several works which define concepts, people, and issues prevalent in my life. I suggest you read these poems aloud and allow yourself to find your rhythm and pace in the words. For the two duet poems I’ve included within this selection, I encourage you to read with someone else. The lines to the far left and far right of the page are exclusive to two separate individuals while the lines in the center of the page are to be spoken together.

The most rewarding aspect of writing poetry for me is when an audience member, reader, classmate, friend or stranger is unintentionally moved by what I’ve written. That ability to bridge gaps between different narratives fuels me to write on, and my hope is for you to walk away from reading this having gained something.

It is the stories we have and share with others that which define us and continue our legacy.

def i ni tion by Makeda Yezalaleul

Table of Contents preface - 5 where i’m from - 7 womanhood - 9 around you - 17

older - 19 on a sunny day - 20 consiousness - 22 She - 25

allegiance - 31 violet - 36

ending - 46

Lyrical essay - 39

about the author - 48

baggage - 42

duet poems

hail - 44

fluency - 13 garden - 32

dedication & Acknowledgements This is dedicated to my eigth and ninth grade English teachers -Ms. Mackenzie & Mr. Kwan, thank you for teaching me how to fall in love with poetry.

I would like to thank my parents for encouraging me to continue to pay attention to the world around me and take note. I appreciate everything you have done for me and more.

I would also like to thank the Los Altos High School slam poetry team and any student that has taken part in it. Thanks guys, for inspiring me to better by writing and better my soul -the last four years have been made memorable by you all.

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P r e f a c e

In this poetry anthology, you will read several works which define concepts, people, and issues prevalent in my life. I suggest you read these poems aloud and allow yourself to find your rhythm and pace in the words.

For the two duet poems I’ve included within this selection, I encourage you to read with someone else. The lines to the far left and far right of the page are exclusive to two separate individuals while the lines in the center of the page are to be spoken together. The most rewarding aspect of writing poetry for me is when an audience member, reader, classmate, friend or stranger is unintentionally moved by what I’ve written. That ability to bridge gaps between different narratives fuels me to write on, and my hope is for you to walk away from reading this having gained something.

It is the stories we have and share with others that which define us and continue our legacy.

Thank you for taking the time to read a few of mine and without further ado, Definition.

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6

I am from a place where laughter fills my ears, and the strong aroma of ethnic food fills my nostrils and never leaves I’m from a rough sleeping arrangement and staying up late due to time difference Daily invitations for meals with affectionate family members and way too much food I’m from the embrace of warm hugs and plentiful kisses Eskista and hair flips Injera and Wat Edna Mall and Addis Ababa I’m from “Don’t forget to pray before you eat!”

Waking up early on Saturday morning to listen to numerous bible verses and witnessing the dipping in-n-out of holy water I’m from daring each other to get as close as you can to the chancy dog’s cage, and dashing away like you’ve seen a ghost as it barks madly back at you Screaming and running wildly from each other while playing tag around the house, and then falling onto the grass laughing like hyenas Visits to the Hilton and the Sheraton Addis just for a dip in the pool, and a taste that reminds you of America I’m from the birthplace of coffee, and where you can find the remains of the oldest human being I’m from people knocking on your car window for more, while you’re waiting for the traffic light to change I’m from creating a bonfire for the making of gooey s’mores and the roasting of sweet corn Lions and Monkeys Hail and Lightning cracks Kuriftu and the salon I’m from watching a pack of wild dogs and maybe even a goat cross the road while you’re taking a walk I’m from rowdy car rides with no road rules astonished at people crossing the road without caution Sitting on laps in cars to make space and thinking to myself how awesome this is I am from the country of “13 months of sunshine” The smell of coffee beans and freshly brewed tea in the morning Braids and unique afro styles walking up and down the streets

Where

I'm

From

I’m from cherished family time Warmth and Togetherness Glee and Amusement Loud and Crazy Care and Love I’m from Ethiopia

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8

To the woman from cocoa butter kisses, Your hair defies gravity And I hear peachy melanin melodies when you speak.

All praise the skin goddess.

You deserve peace and respect Hair kinks and shrinks Bunches up as strangers twist and twine index fingers in coconut oiled curls Don’t mind that your black skin turns blue under the moon, Don’t mind that your ears may soak in more hate than your skin does sunrays.

Beauty is plentiful, And you are beautiful To the girl who witnessed the dipping in-n-out of holy water, From working on working for others, from kind “hello”s to genuine “thank you”s All praise the prayer goddess.

She exudes confidence Shoulders poised And struts on stars, You are a warrior from an undiscovered tribe You don’t let rain drops dampen your scalloped hair to be reckless, You let them fall because as they hit your head, They sing a song just for you.

To the lady that wasn’t afraid to release her tongue from its cage Her words are tenacious.

She effortlessly breathes the very fire and air that the male walks upon, Yet her brightness is dulled by his calloused hands Turning the knob on the dimmer light he replaced.

All praise the wonder woman.

Womanhood

I watch as she, a girl/a miss/a lady Experiences womanhood

The “man” in “woman” is nothing but a 3 letter word to you And you can lift the weight of a thousand suns On your petite, spine creeping through skin back Our steps crack lightning, Hold breaths & glares

They/We/She walk through dimly lit alleyways With cloaks upon our syrup heads You wear the hood in womanhood each day To shield yourself from being seen as inferior, from being taken advantage of, To shield yourself from losing your divine voice.

Your womanhood taught you that you could, that you should.

You taught yourself how to be good and that you would Be happy, And I see a wide toothy red/glossy/nude lipped smile now.

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Sweet Sweet m e at 11

12

We took a tour of the building and stopped at the remains of the oldest discovered human, Lucy I studied my Grandpa as he paid no attention to the aged hips and teeth He explained how it was all make believe…

Like a fairytale story

Fluency My Grandmother’s love for you

My Grandfather’s love for you is so strong that he does not trust history

My Grandmother’s love for you Was felt by me at the age of 6

I watch as his calloused palms

her calloused palms Stroked a rosary Her knotted fingers weaving fine porcelain One wrap around her arm, and one message to be sent to you

I watched how his calloused palms prune in prayed on waters He gracefully orchestrates a baptism like a conductor The hands perform magic as they carry his grandkin reborn in your forgiving tears My sister dresses her sunday best for you Sitting on benches listening to a preacher teach her

I asked my mom why she believes in you Mom said that you can lift someone up when there are no more hands left

My sister has never gone to church tell me how to make the right, wrong decisions Bread and wine turned to sweet meat and blood I asked my dad why he has no trust Dad said that you give people hope, but then leave them behind 13

I whisper wants and hopes to you like a recluse

I want you to answer my

I pray before long rides

She prayed before meals

I pray before tests

She prayed to heal

Eyes closed Palm pressed against palm

I don’t think you blessed me To be honest

My dad takes me to his church where I don’t understand the language

She sang: bismillah al rahman al rahim

My dad takes me to his church when he knows I don’t understand the language I go to church where I don’t understand the language to show you

14

Softly spoken words

In the name of you, most Gracious, most Compassionate…

I want to try to understand the language.

15

16

Radiant videos simultaneously sing as one, breathe in the melody of eight anthologized cries, across rooms of a home.

Various illuminated spaces, each with a music maker.

Separate people in separate rooms harmonize in unison.

Each screen shares a different biography: A woman worn from the wretchedness of society’s bleeding souls, minds painfully contorting into what seems to be the perfect mold; A man taking a bath after a long day; And a group of non-related people, Basking in a cricket’s hymn The boat is docked, You lie at bay You hear unity and serenity

intertwine calloused fingers And become interchangeable.

There’s a certain ease to the cadence, the abstracted unity, the inclusive isolation Lyrics free fall into crescendo, And eventually bellow.

The lullaby ripens into a battle cry.

Words uplift and piano keys perform.

Eyelids kiss and I’m no longer met with a void Blues, reds, yellows and whites dance in the dark

Around You

Seventh floor.

As a great, big blue room shifts into a dimly lit hallway, I continue forward to unveil an encompassing encounter.

The art concludes with the congregation of seven in the piano room There, vocals and piano are accompanied with strings

Soon after, everyone chases the end of the day over the hills while chanting the song of stars.

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18

Older

What scares you most?

Asks lips belonging to a stranger.

I think back to watching as my mother helped my grandmother walk from the couch in the family room to her bed in the guest room One hand supporting a body My mother’s mother takes a break every 3 to 4 steps She regains stability through the shoulders of the dining room chairs When does a child become a parent to their parents?

When memory begins flicker like the unchanged bulb in my closet?

When the same phrase must etch itself several times into heavy ears?

I sometimes travel into the future of adulthood Where I mother a child and make a home And where my hands too lift the weight of bodies that created myself When does one relinquish power over another’s youth?

When the final breath of innocence is exhaled?

When independence looks dependability dead in the eye?

I cried the other day…

When the thought of being forgotten monopolized my mind And the idea of forgetting my past tightened my chest Sometimes I wonder if all grown-ups are all grown up And when I’ll realize I’m no longer a kid, When I’ll realize Neverland isn’t a destination but a state of mind You see, Mothers mother others And two eyes can show you the truth Nostalgia and affection create a cobweb of sweetness –one that tangles you in Time And a parents grief can engulf a child So what scares me the most you ask?

I’m afraid of growing old And I’m petrified of growing up

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On A Sunny Day This is a poem dedicated...

To the man who rolled down his driver-side window Downtown to call me the N-word on a sunny day...

To the lady in the safeway elevator who asked me how I got my hair to look like this, To the boy with the “police lives matter” bumper sticker And to the girl who said I’m smart, for a black girl;...

Allow me to introduce myself, See I hail from a land where the sidewalks are muddy, yet people walk barefoot.

This is Ethiopian baby, Coffee beans and mangos baby!

Must you know, I belong to a dynasty.

A rich lineage of warriors, and royalty So the sons and daughters of my sons and daughters, Are destined to be kings and queens rightfully so To the girl sitting behind me during a STEM presentation who began to undo my twists, and the fact that I can’t get my hair done at the salon down the street or anywhere within a 10 mile radius of my home; European beauty standards are manipulative and difficult to uphold.

Black hands turn black hair gold.

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To the kid who asked my sister for the “n-word pass”, and the child who concluded our childhood conversation with: At least I’m not the color of poo!…; This exploitation of a word with such power is becoming dangerous.

Children who harbor such thoughts can amplify the world’s discord.

To my Father, when he asked me to accompany him to a local house, cause they wouldn’t be as frightened if this body stood behind the front door;...

I mean, if less melanin was produced He had lighter eyes A higher voice, shorter limbs And frayed ancestors hadn’t bruised bare feet to walk East-African rugged road distances Maybe their bones wouldn’t quiver Their eyes wouldn’t shutter And their hands wouldn’t stutter to open the door...

But his 15 year old Wide hipped, Darker skinned, Braided hair daughter Would easily appease The light eyes of light skinneded people To my Mother, who reminded me to be conscious of how I present myself; Because there’s a fine line etched between being fun and ratchet, and by means of some, the moment you cross over into the latter, “Ghetto” has been stained upon your back To the several middle aged women in my lifetime who’ve pointed out the “uncanny” resemblance between my younger sister I and Obama’s daughters; We look like them, because we’re the only thing you’ve seen like them.

Such lack of representation is suffocating.

To the middle eastern boy who filled out “African American” on his standardized tests and college apps; When did using my race for conveniency become as effortless as switching a light on and off ?

When does the light turn off ?

To men who prefer lighter skinned women; Does my embodiment of an ebony empress’ mind, body, and soul intimidate you?

Brown skinned and Black, baby This right here is milk laced with honey, honey To those who’ve entitled themselves the founders of modern day millennial culture, And those who fell in love with rooted african culture only after seeing Black Panther – and proceeded to report to me that they did indeed see Black Panther; Black is and has been Soul, R&B, Rap, Trap, Funk, Hip-Hop, Pop, and Rock.

What do you do when the cultural appropriation of your roots and blood goes unnoticed?

To the boy in my third period who asked me why black people are commonly late to events, and the girl in sixth who wondered why so many black women wear artificial hair; Being the sole spokesperson for your entire race at any given time Can convert you into a liable Misconceptionist …

I feel your eyes on me as we learn about slavery and Jim Crow And I become apprehensive.

I’m guessing a certain symptom of something unknown.

To the Miss who refused to receive assistance from my Mother by virtue of her complexion, To inferiority complexes composed upon statistics, To whomever turned the OK sign into a WP for white power, To the prison industrial system;...

My skin/their skin/& our skin is one-sixteenth of an inch, Yet has managed to infiltrate moral judgments, justice systems, and institutionalized racism This relative deprivation is getting tiring, And I’m becoming sick of feeling the need to prove myself I am becoming sick of feeling the need to prove that I am more than double-minority Upon abandoning such darkness, I shall no longer gleam blue in moonlight, And will become black and beautiful on a sunny day.

Finally, to the teacher who calls out last names from the roster when taking attendance and skips over mine, And to those who repeatedly fail to pronounce my last name - after I’ve not only shortened it, yet taught it to them as well; I’ve noticed it looks tricky, but I’ve had enough time to memorize yours and know damn well you can enunciate Schwarzenegger so get it right; It’s Yezalaleul.

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Consciousness

Nostalgia is the daughter of Remembrance and a cousin to Regret My life is a series of moments spent dwelling on past moments, Past laughs Past hugs Past hello’s My heart pumps Red on Sundays at Autie’s house Blood orange courses through my body when I look good honey Yellow drapes my lungs when I cackle with friends And my blood runs Blue on days I fail to meet self-made expectations See I was taught to walk upright with shoulders held high But some days the message takes a while to reach my body I shrink thrice my size when broken sentences present themselves in random conversations as I’m unable to recall certain words at any given time.

I’m afraid one-day friendly faces won’t wave back I fear I’ll utter the words “I love myself ” without crossed fingers.

And I wonder… if I get emotional when people say they’re proud of me Because I fear I’ll never say it to myself My body is an emotional Motel 6, Embarrassment spends the night as I stutter on that one word And anger checks out soon as my father’s arms engulf me Some may linger for long yet they never stay Alone time is the sweetest-bitter-thing There, I contemplate euphemisms There, sleek soliloquies lace my lips and move my hips

Alone I sit in the dark

And alone I cry too I lose track of how I make myself feel every second of every hour I analyze the essence of “before” far too often I’ve studied smiles and like to think I’ve memorized nuances like the back of my hand I’ve learned that love can cause hurt And one too many times in the past hour I’ve thought of what makes us who we are Today I’ll breathe the air unbeknown to my chest And tomorrow I’ll continue to create the definition of my name

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23

24

She was built as a sand castle under the fire sun.

Small fingers packed granules down firmly and then

washed

away.

Her mother’s wooden hips cracked together the dark silk of her skin and she kissed her with velvet lips Her mother, and her mother’s mother Taught her to be a

holy woman, to be solely woman.

She slowly witnessed the baptism of her soul in the shallows of the very sea she built her castles in With a chamomile melody and lavender voice, Mother whispered to child that she was hers, And she was hers too.

S he

They basked in the golden glory of childhood, and she shielded her own eyes from the bright light of innocence She grew, and began to dream of Began to crave the embrace of strangers.

another’s touch;

In exchange for time and callused palms, she would relinquish her worth.

When she met him, he gave her time.

Evaded time that

runs through a He had the power to turn 10 minutes

widely waisted hourglass

into a dazed couple of seconds…

He was a tornado of orders, And a thunderstorm of

I love you, Babies 25

As they lay on the sand, they bid closed lipped farwell’s to the waves as the water ran from the dehydrated shore’s edge.

At his command, piece by piece She handed over grains of her sand-turned-china glass body.

She was a slave to his broken promises.

Learned how to hold her tongue, mistook selfishness for disability to love harder.

She was thus made only to please and use at owner’s peril.

And then, she said no. Yet he stole her unspoken yes. He crashed into the sacred palace of her body. With each wave’s collision, he slowly wore her away into nothing.

Washed away the sacraments and set a flame to the high ceilings and cracked muted walls. And she said no.

He left her there to rebuild what he had destroyed.

He abandoned her with everything she had given him and more.

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She became isolated

silently and m a g i c a l l y.

She hid from others like Houdini.

In and out of grotesque grottos.

Alone she floated in conversation with her thoughts.

She screamed as they echoed in the deep cave of her hallowed memory.

Soon her reflection converted into her worst enemy.

Hands pressed together against lips in prayer; Asking God for forgiveness when she was never guilty.

She became an and sometimes a

angry woman, crazy woman.

As she attempted to salvage the remains of her edifice, those once firm sandcastles crumbled effortlessly through her fractured fingers.

Her soul drowned and drowned again in holy waters she had prayed upon‌ And finally turned black She gave her condolences to those who lost her and lay sunken in darkness.

As the moon shimmered down in the night on the water’s moody skin, Her black turned blue.

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28

before meaning there was definition 29

30

Allegiance

I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of Deceit.

One nation, under man.

Hide everything….

Paint a lighter hue over the red on your wrists.

Wipe your tears if you’re a Real man.

Mask your unrequited love like you tuck away the tag under your collar.

Little girls who don’t smile possess Resting Bitch Faces.

Boys solemnly swear to keep your private parts private.

Men get uncomfortable about blood from a not so pretty place, but are okay with beating and shooting one another in the face How can you break a woman, bruise a woman, and bottle up a woman When you came from a woman?

There is nothing to hide Act like the digital you is the real you, while your pillow elegantly soaks itself with salty dewdrops in the twilight There is nothing to hide Salvage brokenness with drunkenness, and slowly numb away into nothingness….

You cannot camouflage the melancholy of an entire nation.

And to the high expectations for which it stands Define my achievements with fractions and digits after decimal points But don’t call me a statistic Confidence is key.

And accept being alone Not physically, just mentally Look at your reflection and fall in love with who is staring back.

Love who is staring back...

Love yourself….

Indivisible with confinement.

Our minds have yet to be liberated from society’s shackles How can we name ourselves Freedom when we still haven’t escaped the custody of our own words?

And prejudice for all.

My cousin has to make a decision to choose between black or white because she can’t have both…..

She chooses black because here, it’s better to be the oppressed than the oppressor What do you do when you’re belittled by another minority, but are told you’re lucky from a majority?

How can some still hate rich melanin?

If humanity originated in Africa we are all colored people.

I pledge allegiance to America.

We are all taught the same things because they think we are the same things.

31

My friends and I were walking in the city last Saturday when a man lifted his voice to my hips, viscous like thick syrup, and spoke as if

Does he not know that the flower of a fig does not blossom outward, on the branches, for the common man.

Garden Hey lady with His words alone,

how dare he?!

he could fashion me into fig tree, make my limbs into branches, and pluck me whole a woman.

it blossoms within the fig, a gift unto itself.

Does he not know that my mother named me with Meaning?

And still when he calls me Lady.

I do not flinch

and yet I ask myself why did I like it?

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in later reflections, I recognize my steps were made uneven I tasted my discomfort

love songs spoken from unknown lips are mighty and the catcall can become a spell Twisting tongues slice girlish frames to make women

you see, validation is a funny thing. a masked man’s words are powerful,

But what makes a woman?

In that space between innocence and fertility,

when bodies take shape

when bodies want to be wanted,

worth off bones.

Once, a man told my sister he bet she tasted like a juicy mango. and she is another girl harvested

I stood prepubescent boy, having never heard the catcall, That which strips cloth off breasts, And yet I craved the smallness, the suppleness that strangers offered in their mouths.

But I wonder why I feel more woman when made a man’s mistress by a catcall than when I dance or love or bleed.

Let us never forget.

We are the hurricanes, We reign Soul crushing, Finger snapping words, Caressing the ears of strangers.

We are the definition of femininity

And I fear what woman will become if we let man define us.

What will it make of our daughters: sour, rotting fruits.

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35

Violet You shall not feel sorrow from abandonment For I am the color of a thousand blazes And my looks burn more than the kiss upon the cheek Which may bloom roses in the springtime Don’t turn your back on me For then I will move from heel to toe To places I have not explored Where I will find beauty in another We walk with our fingers intertwined to rescue each other’s minds From taking those far away trips For we shall not get lost, because then we may never be found A cloak conceals my melancholy eyes And my tears fill stars and swirls when I weep Once we gaze into eachother’s eyes You shall dive into my iris’ galaxies And forever stay in zero gravity with me

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37

38

Born the son of a King. Black hands painted your childhood gold.

An African country lay the soil for your roots to grow. A budding black flower in an all-black garden. Ubiquitous obsidian was all you knew.

The colored coat in which your hero was draped resembled yours The accent which laced the tongues of your friends resembled yours The afro which graced the head of your emperor resembles yours Having been raised in a world such as this, never have you seen the shade of your skin as less than – even after the birth of a new life beneath a white light.

America. You had arrived in the land of opportunities. The country had cast its spell on you, inducing your years’ long sleep and entrapping you within the American Dream like being stuck beneath the sheets of Time’s bed.

Here your voice is a shapeshifter – you converse with others in one dialect, yet also speak in the tongue of your mother. You do not mind repeating phrases into ears unable to decipher your sentences cloaked in East African Amariñña.

Through the years, you came to realize the differing dispositions between you and those of dark complexion stemming from another world. Souls of feet hit the ground at offbeat tempos, onyx lips morphed into distinct shapes, and mouths amplified separate frequencies.

Yet those whose flesh had been dipped in lighter hues labeled you all the same.

You find it harder to teach your son self-love as he asks why he can’t be white.

You don’t know how to respond to the French man who asks what it’s like for black people in America while you buy a sim card on vacation You fall silent when your daughter says she’s been called the n-word No Never

Nothing

Nice Black people are not a black person.

Lyrical Essay

- Yezala

There’s no name to the bond between you and other blacks.

You don’t remember when you began exchanging silent nods of acknowledgment with those of the same skin.

I see you.

You are wary of your actions in particular situations as you try to avoid perpetuating stereotypes of those you know not.

When the officer asks ‘why the attitude?’ you apologize at once to the Mr. who then becomes a Sir. You ask your daughter to accompany you to pick up furniture from a local house because the homeowners would be more at ease seeing her as opposed to her father.

Well, it would’ve/might’ve/could’ve been about race. But was it always?

You hope your kids keep their tongue-twisting last name, your first name You hope your kids remember where they’re from There’s no need to get mad at those who mistake your status or competence. King is what you’ve been called, and you would never allow someone’s wet paintbrush to taint the gold within your veins, Beneath your skin, Behind your ebony sheath.

39

why are we afraid of the dark?

40

41

WWW

Baggage

Each of us blessed with a different coating

Mama said mine distinguished Black from AfricanAmerican The same cloak that made my sister admit to my mom, “I want to be white” At the time not sure if it was either being the only color in the neighborhood Or if she had heard about the extra baggage to accompany our cloaks The sheath that causes mama to remind my brother never talk back to the police, Or he might become another statistic The same melanin making me pray, “God, why us” Yet thanking him for making me a melanin goddess

Mahogany hands held spiritually with arms waved rhythmically and legs walked to the beat of the drum, so differently People asking for permission to use words Which they themselves have created The cape that causes tongues to linger on Black, or African American description The cocoa my sons will carry While I embrace them and their burgundy tears And remind them they’re not a criminal to remind my sons they’re not criminals to remind my sons they’re not criminals

Look at the color of the coating upon my cracked carpals Don’t cuff them People thinking they can diminish a minority Already the lesser of the people The ebony jacket that makes people bitter But doesn’t it go, the darker the berry, the sweeter the taste?

But that’s just my skin A single shade of the spectrum And each has been tainted Skin isn’t just the product of x & y chromosomes No Skins are the thesis of stories from faraway places The canvases on which we paint our battle wounds What we see, what we touch, what we taste

Have been forbidden to fuse Been through marches and fist fights With some using their fists to fight punching bags of one another Which each sway becoming stronger Skins have felt pain and suffering Endured hardships and struggle Yet the beauty of how two skins can mesh together Creating the perfect blend of innocence and equality Is one compared to no other Because under all of the coats, there is a bare, bona fide body In which we’re all alike Skin causes hate and war and love But our exteriors are something we can never diminish Because each coat has a story and some baggage

Hail

I remember I remember seeing your elliptical face for the first time in my life You engulfing me in a hug so tight I’d wished it would keep from the fact that mine wasn’t I remember your transparency, you were open about everything You would reach out and grab my hand When only I pulled away, because I couldn’t recognize those glossed nails, shiny palms and dark fissures Creating intricate woven designs upon a cracked canvas I remember you coming home broken Collapsing into the branched arms of our father Me, retreating to my room like a coward Not ready to deal with the hurricane of your emotions Unaware of how to comfort the storm I remember you reminding me to say hello and give you a kiss whenever we met Until one day I didn’t, and you were shattered porcelain And I, unaware, was the infant child playing too close to the china cabinet I don’t remember why we didn’t talk Maybe because I didn’t say hello, To make up for all the hello’s missed when I wasn’t there Maybe because you’d been hurt one too many times and I took the final swing on the dilapidated punching bag I remember your once inviting melody beckoning me into your room Where there I sat awaiting the downpour

44

When you looked at me, That’s when I saw the Idon’tremember’s in your eyes And I crumbled Into a blizzard of Idon’tknowwhy’s and I’msorry’s And together, together we became a silent monsoon

Before death there was life And before meaning there was definition.

Rebuild, not relive It won’t be long now till my soul’s blackness removes its blindfold I use the hands that cracked pistol and mortal to write these words these words which birth the breath that heals my wounds I can move forward not back now Use these broken lips to mouth a three-word melody across sunken ships I can build a lateen to sail the ocean of lost souls I cannot be lost, for then I cannot speak for then I have been robbed of the breath that I use to sing and laugh and love I will rebuild, and not relive I can see. My skin sees Everything.

Give me this day, my daily bread.

I am a fighter, a healer, a poet I write to remember my words unspoken, And please...

Remember to remember me too.

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Ending 47

About the Author

M

akeda Yezalaleul is a senior at Freestyle Academy studying Design. She first became entranced by poetry in the eighth grade when she was asked to write a poem about where she’s from. Other than poetry, she enjoys music (of all genres) and visual art. In her free time, Makeda enjoys being with friends and family. In the fall, Makeda will be attending Loyola Marymount University and majoring in Communications.

She hopes she can take the many skills Freestyle has taught her and effectively apply them to a variety of situations later down the road.

She is thankful for the opportunity she was given to attend Freestyle and looks forward to what the future holds!