Knowing when to finally let go
I left without saying goodbye. I did it because it was time. I knew it. I know you knew it. Why were we hanging on? There was love . . . there was old love that flickered as a reminder that my heart would keep breaking if the cycle continued and I did not want it to, so I broke the cycle. I should have been brave enough to say goodbye. I should have had the courage to tell you why I was leaving.
We’d managed to be what others thought we were for over a decade knowing damn well who we actually were and I guess that didn’t bother you but it sure as hell ate at the core of who I am. …
Winter's kiss is fatal —
she brings with her a
wrath of unbearable cold
or maybe it's bearable
and I've just grown thin-skinned
in my older age?
I sit in my favorite chair
and watch snow fall
to the ground, fluffy
chunks of purification
sing in harmony.
Music fills my ears.
I scratch my dog
and relish her satisfied
sighs as she
snuggles in closer to me —
her whiskers brush my hands.
We sit still, peaceful in
the warmth of our home
thankful to have this roof
over our heads;
a covering of life's
many blessings bestowed
bountifully.
People text. They call.
They want to know if
I'm enduring winter
as best as I can and I
tell them, "I'm fine" or
"We're good" and I just want
to be done with answering
questions that are neverending
or fill me with grief. …
Flash Fiction
I don’t know anything about the stolen jewels. I’ve heard the Mason’s have them but I’m not sure how true that is. Mr. Mason — Hal, has a French toupee — an actual hairpiece he purchased in France. They’re so rich, they shit gold.
They’re the type of folks who pronounce vase as “voz” instead of “vace.” I’d never heard of such. I had to ask Mandy to repeat herself when she was showing me her mom’s famous collection. “Voz,” unbelievable.
Inheritance . . . Money passed on that’s been in the family for generations. My people say Hal won’t tell Mandy and Erik or even his wife how much they’re all worth. I know you’ve read those articles in every big-time magazine about them. Ever notice how the figure is always different? …
Flash Fiction
Readers: The following fictional piece is one of abandonment, frequent miscarriages, and self-harm.
My body decided to terminate my pregnancy. The phone calls won’t stop. Everyone says the same thing. Everyone thinks I can just pick up and start anew. It doesn’t work that way.
I'm broken. There's no fixing me. This is the third time. It will be my last.
My name is Clara De Jesus-Mendez Moses. I am an only child to older parents. Friends say, maybe it’s my DNA. That I am full of codes and clues and puzzles that only lead to trauma. My mom was forty-two when she had me. …
For Marley K
Black people need more voices
willing to shout at the darkness
of every sky moving in to
silence us without our knowledge.
We should rally around those
who spit-shine their A-Game and
ready themselves for battle —
Queens and Kings walking on
coal, tipped a mere 10% for
their undying efforts.
One such woman uses her gift
of gab to stab many who have
offended us in the front because
to do so in their backs would
be an act of cowardice.
She is bold and unrelenting,
she has goals that surpass whatever
you think you can dream up,
and she's unafraid to clap back. …
A Collaborative Effort with Devon Henry
Grit. Strength. Resilience.
No one tells you you'll need
to be stronger than sandpaper
on a brutally hot summer's day.
You move through life slowly,
unwilling to shapeshift, unable
to put up with some shit . . .
But you know where you stand.
The first year of the pandemic
slithered its snaky skin into
our lives — blindsided us with a
force we could not stop.
We have silly putty for leaders
and fake devils as authoritative
figures, who could we trust . . .
We learned to depend on
clean face masks, six feet of
distance, and isolating ourselves
from others.
We Zoom'd, Duo'd, Skyped, and
glued our butts to our favorite
chairs as we gained the quarantine
fifteen, twenty, and thirty pounds. …
But I appreciate what you taught me
Dear 2020:
I could start this letter by saying “I’m glad you’re leaving,” “I’ll hold the door open for you,” or “I’ll even grab your bags, walk you to your car, and make sure you get home safely” happily but I’m choosing to let you know even though you have nearly taken me out, I am still here. And many of us can say this.
You tried, you almost succeeded, but we’re powerful enough to deal with you.
Coronavirus COVID-19 is raging with a significant increase every day of those who have contracted the virus. Pharmaceutical companies have introduced rushed vaccines for a thing that constantly mutates and brings about different strains periodically to shoot into faithful believers of being protected against it. …
ACG Newsletter #4
We have been through so much with this year — words cannot even begin to describe the roller coaster we’ve all been riding for the last ten-eleven months. For those of you who have grieved this year — we send a prayer, we lend our hearts to you. For those of you who are struggling to make it through each day remaining of this year — we hold you close. You have our love.
As creatives, we know how to make our art work for us and during this daunting season, writers in A Cornered Gurl have not wavered. …
An Audio Poem
cold-blooded — heart heavy
sweet girl turned woman
turned goddess
turned flashback to
“golden time of day.”
in captivity, you led a
whole life — broken from
all others who managed
to beat you blue.
waiting for the thaw,
we watch you bloom,
deflowered in purple rain.
we want to suckle
at the dew dripping
from your lips — lost lovers
falling from your
wind.
yes, you — just like us,
only “wanna be loved.”
A break from the everyday grind lent me peace
I woke up Christmas morning to a blustery icy wind and the invitation from the corners of my home to get up and get out with Jernee in tow. Just before 07:00 a.m., I released myself from the grips of a warm bed, prayed, layered up in clothing, and gathered my four-legged love so we could tour our neighborhood before everyone got active. We walked around the complex, toward the wind, our faces kissed by nature’s undeniable presence, and attempted to make our walk as productive but short as possible.
The air smelled like buttered biscuits and honey — so sweet; a come-hither-ish enjoyment that no one could deny. I was content. I felt loved. I knew the days after this special holiday would also be tests, but I had the feeling they would not be hard to pass. I can only hold fast to the idea this will be so. Jernee bounced about as if a new spring was in her steps — she sashayed ecstatically, happy to be out in the early morning air doing what she loved to do most. …
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