altar to my childhood

this, too, is a love letter of sorts.

not the written kind,

but the oral history,

the whisper in your ear at 4 AM.

a constant reawakening

of the same spell,

uttered by trembling lips

and unwavering hands.

this, too, is an altar.

all ocean salt, and fragmented

seashell. all chopped up dreadlocks

smelling of barbecue,

humming a vernacular of

untamed tongue

and a slew of fuck you’s

for an empire leaving

empty in its wake.

what kind of magic

kept this black body alive?

what else could,

except this tongue?

this pen?