Flood Gates With Fangs, and: Collaring Our Native Tongues, and: Mahalia Sings to Freedom

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• Flood Gates With Fangs, and: Collaring Our Native Tongues, and: Mahalia Sings to Freedom
• Khalisa Rae (bio)

FLOOD GATES WITH FANGS

Momma say, "Cross your legs in church, girl."& I'm not sure what she thought would flyout—a bee, a psalm, a moan, wet-fangedbeast running

to where we lost ourselves, where we first sawthe light, come where the dew drops of mercy shine bright, shine all around us,

a liquid call that says, I'm alive here, when I'm gapedopen & splayed like a fish platter. I'm sure that whatever will rushwill be a flood, a stampede, whatever Noah escaped from—thatthat's what we've got between our legs.They boarded that ark to get away from our wet jaws,they afraid of our flood-beast—our water be so scary. Close it up,chile, and follow the elephants into the boat likegood little girls.

I notice church women wear cloths over their shortskirts to not to show their privateparts to the pastor, and I wonder why womenare always plugging their holes. Why we hiding the gushlike men be wolves without control?

What if at night my vagina grew shark fangs & that's whythe mommas said to shut this feral flow–they worried about what my foaming, rabid lips will dowhen the preacher comes down from the pulpit. [End Page 64]

COLLARING OUR NATIVE TONGUES

Heard we rattle in the walls, smalland rat-tailed rumbles, peopleignore. They swear we're just the pipes—

creaks in the floorboards. Our native tonguescrawl out of tight spaces and tumbleinto hushed cracks. We scavenge for substance,

but settle for the need to be heard. Searchfor the words you tried to exterminate.We know the social norms set

for us are a trap. Our dirt-road, desert storiesare called trifle, fleeting, when in the darkyou consider us rodent—hard to get rid of.

You cannot lure us with moldy scraps.We've learned how to sniff out the risk beforeappearing full faced. Our accents are not welcome

here, presence not loud enough to be heardover your King's English. We're trained to sneakout and go quiet to force you to listen closer.

But sometimes we'd like to be domesticated,taken outside for a walk, or to the parkto play catch.

We'd like to be pet and praisedfor our silence and how wellwe obeyed. [End Page 65]

MAHALIA SINGS TO FREEDOM

"I had crossed the line. I was free; but there was no one to welcome me to the land of freedom. I was a stranger in a strange land…."

—Harriet Tubman

And I am a stranger, stilla face no one recognizes,still an excuse to clutch pursefirst and ask questions later,still a reason to shootthen investigate, stilla cause to attach falsecrimes to my name.

Always a barely human body.

And how I arrived here will be a mystery–my capturer repeating the same investigation.

How I managed to trudge to freedomafter traversing this terrain,like bondage is something I gotover. As if a stump, a hill, a broken heart

like I ain't belly-crawl and scrapethrough mud and shit, thousand-miletunnels to get here.

How did I make it over? [End Page 66] Wardens will ask and wonder—cock heads to side perplexedat how my cracked skinand wrinkled brow broke freeand stumbled on the coverof currency

and this gentle arrival will be enoughto convict me of fleeingcaptivity.

How did I make it over?

How does a fugitive arrive?Rope burns still fresh and bleedingbandaged back still rawsullied and soil-covered

and still I made it over.

But I never forget the scarsetched into my skin,or the bounty on my headworth more than the sum of me. [End Page 67]

Khalisa Rae

KHALISA RAE is an award-winning author, organizer, and arts administrator from Durham, NC with a passion for art for social change. Rae is the author of the chapbook...