four years in
and the call of the host is never a shout from any stage
the applause never a thunder of hands from people waiting to hear me speak
as always
i am nine years old and sulking
silently in the corner of my grandmother’s house
refusing to talk to anyone save my cousin about watching for cops on the block
and he
can only get codes i whisper in a way that only family can hear
and everyone is tired of tiptoeing around this quiet child from northern georgia
taking up more of an already too small space in their orlando home
and when i hear the shout of any host
calling me to a microphone
i remember the day my grandmother gave me a pen and said “write a poem”
that the quiet way i kept was eating away at my heart
“and her oldest son’s child wasn’t getting heartsick on her watch”
and since then
anyone calling me to spit
has my grandmother’s voice
reminding me to live
the hands clapping like dinner sizzling on the stove the next room over
and this is family
sharing stories ‘round a kitchen table after a day of work
them
in casual freestyle laughter
me
reading a poem
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