Morning Travels
Author: Korrine Key
My Papa’s Hands
I remember your hands
The most
Labor-worn and never smooth
They were large hands
Fit for a lumberjack
Yet old and wise
Never withered
Strength within each
Groove and wrinkle
Though gentle when you’d
Lead me through
Your colorful spring garden
Blues
Pinks
Purples
All bright in my youthful eyes
You’d take me there just to see
My smile
I was there but a flower bud
Soaking in this day like water
After Camonghne Felix’s “Lost Poem RX”
The stranger across the street
Asks me if I want to die, and I say
Only if it is a happy death
If I were to die now
I’m not worried about
missing out on my first drink
being able to rent cars
owning my first house
or waiting to turn 65
for the chance to retire
Yes, my heart yearns
for the day it stops beating
It is indeed a burning
Choice out of desire
but I am not running
towards death. It must come to me
And when that day
is near arrival
Do not ask me to keep
fighting. I am taking the
passageway that leads to
my ancestors,
answers how
the Egyptians built
the Pyramids, and crafts a
body that knows no Illness
If you want to know how are we so
Compatible with death
The secret lies in the syntax
Written in the code of
life: God’s program for humanity.
Prayer
We are puppets to
Your systems. Our only qualification
Is to be the number that
Satisfies your minority quota defenseless
Without our heartless haven
You shoot us in the streets
Not because of our words or ideals
But by a variation of color
Forgetting
that the pavement
Is stained by the same dark hue
As we hold our
Fathers, mothers
Sons, daughters
Sisters and brothers
In our arms at the hour
Of their death. We
Cling to Our Lady’s
Cloak. Asking not for
Her to crush your head
But for your conversion.
We petition her for another
Guadalupe, Mother
Unite us like you
Did before. Show
them how a mixed-race
Can be Miraculous.