Shrike
Jasmine Snow
I watch you hold the hand of a white woman walking down the street and think about you on my commute home. Babygirl, I forgot a body like yours could exist here: little-limbed and shrouded by everything around it. You move like a push pin weaving a blanket, like you’re sowing seeds for a family tree you don’t need yet. (Like something only able to navigate necessary absences.) You looked at me how I look at the moon sometimes, and I choke. That look is mine, but I’m looking at her. Is she yours? Does she answer your questions? Does she know how to do your hair? Does she own Antiracist Baby? The difference— killing you now, or killing you later. Boogeyman of autonomy, I was once a lot like you: wide-eyed, hollow-boned, and breathy. When I hatched for my own family of white women, they were not equipped for me, either. I tried to be them but jutted like something mislaid. The binds of our flock chafed—superficial or changeable: lullabies, home addresses, the way I hold a hand in mine. bark, but not beak ; nest, but not tree ; bone, but not claw. Always the dead parts. Never anything to show for it.
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