you undo me::braids and sanity cord wrap around your fists and with the snap of your fingers i am good girl::grandma fills the basin with plants uprooted from the backyard, and although i itch, she reminds me that i am home::it seems easy for you to take the galaxy on my shoulders and make it feel small. make it be a minute thing that fits under your tongue::over hymnals grandma tells me i am of the rain. that i mud all over the kitchen counter, and the basin, and the couch in my father’s van::you made the thunder all about you. made the sun set about you being able to be seen and i saw you. made my whole song about you being both planet and universe::you taught me everything you knew about uncooked rice, and i side eyed you for it::grandma sees darkness now, but tells me that i am worth the sun set::you give me all that you have, but i need what you don’t, or refuse, or misuse::you try to replant our roots, and at some point, i have to let you.
Daschielle Louis is a Haitian American poet, writer, and graphic artist from South Florida: her work exists at the intersections of blackness, womanhood, and migration. Daschielle’s poetry and short stories have appeared in spaces such as Token Magazine, Rise Up Review, Linden Avenue Literary Journal, and Panku Literary and Arts Magazine. Her literary and design work is housed on her website, daschielle.ink.