Poets from the Student Faculty Reading Series read their work.
On the Walk Home
On the walk home, I hum to myself Blackbird.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to fly.
On the walk home, I count the steps it takes for me to reach my front door.
On the walk home, I count the stars in the sky.
On the walk home, I count the seconds it takes to say a Hail Mary.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee.
Blessed are thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of death.
Amen.
10 seconds.
On the walk home, 10 seconds seems like a lifetime.
On the walk home, I count how many cop cars are prowling, I mean patrolling the streets.
On the walk home, I count how many bones are in my body.
On the walk home, I count how many of those bones will be broken if the set trippers catch me in the wrong color, catch me in the wrong skin, sometimes I wish I could take this skin off, but that’s a metaphysical dilemma I have not conquered yet.
On the walks home, I count the seconds it takes to say a Hail Mary.
Hail Mary, full of grace, tell me is the lord with thee?
Cursed are thee among women, and cursed is the fruit of thy womb,
Jesus made a spectacle.
Trayvon made a spectacle.
Tamir made a spectacle.
All fruits with strange skin, and inherently black, brown, bitter, unpalatable names made a spectacle.
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us inhabiting black and brown bodies, now and at the hour of death.
If this is my hour of death, count the seconds it takes to say a Hail Mary.
On the walk home, wash me in whiteness, wash me in manhood, so the set trippers don’t find me.
On the walk home, count the bones in my body, watch how they form into armor.
On the walk home, count how many cop cars are prowling the streets.
On the walk home, 10 seconds feels like a lifetime.
On the walk home, it takes 10 seconds to say a Hail Mary.
On the walk home, count the stars in the night sky.
On the walk home, hum to yourself blackbird.
Why you wanna fly, blackbird?
You ain’t ever gonna fly.
Don’t you know there’s no place big enough to hold all the tears you’re gonna cry?
So, on the walk home, hum to yourself,
Blackbird.
Mo is a 22-year-old poet who is an avid reader and lover of all things art. Her passion has always been music, poetry, and the arts as a whole. Poetry is her truth. Being able to find healing through her platform as an artist is a gift that she is truly thankful for. She can be found on social media platforms such as Twitter, Instagram and Tumblr as @momothepoet.
The Bridge 