On Dre
I was addicted to a boy addicted to chewing gum.
I used to find it stuck
in my hair, my nightgown, and my sheets.
When he was mad
he hit me hard, kicked me when I fell down.
But when my face leaned into his tall chest
his white t-shirt’s soft cotton, Juicy Fruit,
and Snuggle fabric softener
I never wanted to leave.
We Are All Broken, I Tell Him
We all think ours the worst wreckage
The closest to mouth on exhaust in locked garage
sleeping pills at the bedside, delicate wrists upturned
But here we are, so buy the ticket get back on the ride
He says he misses the sharp edge of his depression
when he was that, he knew who he was
it’s a poetic moment for a man not big on words
and when I think about leaving him I think about that
and the brown in his eyes, the brown in his Ben Davis work shirt
I feel like the monster who ran over a possum last night
felt its body meat under my wheels
I think about the trail of blood on highway 13
the crumpled deer staring at me from the shoulder
the kettle is shrieking at us that we are broken
ready to be poured into the arms of a cup
all bubbling boil
all one heartbreak away from revving the engine in the closed garage
we are all meat on the highway
picking ourselves up
for one last brawl.
Mom, I’m Just Like You
Hip Hop I loved on first listen
Seventh grade in the cold country winter
a white kid holding a boom box on the playground
I memorized ever word of Grandmaster Flash and The Furious Five
People Think I’m Nasty People Think I’m Wrong
I heard The Message I learned it
the streets gospel from Melle Mel
fresh from the bottom to the top
I drank Gin and Juice Before Snoop
house parties got turned out
cassette tapes recorded from KPOO every Sunday
we hit the triangle button before Yo MTV Raps
and then all that too but I didn’t just listen
I had to breath black intellectualism and gangsterism
I had to have a baby by the ex con realer than real deal Holyfield
live in housing, walk broke pushing my brown baby’s stroller, marginalized
I toted the books Sister Souljah told me read
my first albums told me Six In The Morning Police At My Door
my fresh Adidas squeak across bathroom floor
NWA and UTFO inhaled with white lines Whodini’s magic
thought I would be an old white lady in the ghetto
these babies gathered round
I can cook and I had to cause it was in the music I ran to
there was history fried chicken and grits
that I didn’t have
I grew up on borrowed time a culture of someone else
Mom I got this from you
you loved Bluegrass
found it a barefoot teenager in the folk clubs of legend
so Beat Nick the music sang in your veins
hungry you learned to strum guitar
you didn’t just sing it you lived it
built houses chiseling wood gardening vegetables
the songs of working fingers to bone of boney fingers sewing clothes
singing the blue out of the grass
sucking the grass through thin lips
licking pressing Zig Zags tight white and perfect
fingers flat on strings heart break ringing into green valleys
blue collar shoulder blades pushing skyward
like cathedral rooftops
maybe it’s the Ireland in us
but some part of the pale mish mash we pass as
we sing for flight
we sing for home
to feel
we live inside music
shape our very cells to the sound
our whole lives to the pitch
it is our only identity.
Cassandra Dallett lives in Oakland, CA., you can call her a poet or a storyteller with a short attention span. She has published in many journals in print and online, look for links and upcoming features at cassandradallett.com. A book of poems, Wet Reckless was released from Manic D Press spring of 2014.
–Art by Jan Rockar
–Art by Plamen Stoev
–Art by Joel Hohner