One day the sky began to weep and did so for 300 days
By Rashida James-Saadiya
there were those who grew tired of waiting,
filled suitcases with half their lives
we watched from the windows, saw the water rise and gather them up
yet when it settled there was only silence
after each death, it was as if the sky wept more
perhaps on our behalf and life as we knew it,
slowly became the color of heartache
my people made no attempt to leave,
common sense persuaded us to stay
considering no one amongst us could swim
overtime we learned a thunderstorm is also a sermon
and water, like all living things, is from God, but it will still kill you
I am writing to tell you the colonized world we came from could not be mended.
That we never learned to swim. So, we flew away
Women with stars under their skin, took care of our bodies,
when we only wanted food, they showed us how to be still,
how to use our tongues, to fold and release what we’d been trained to season and swallow
At night they would whisper,” the universe is inside your body, the map for moving forward lives in your chest, there are wings in your back, find them.”
I am writing to tell you that pain is not the best teacher,
but it comes with the privilege of being alive
Time is real but also a creation of those who invade
Last night we placed them on a self, adjacent to all false idols
We are slowly mending the damage, time is medicine now
I measure each day by dreams,
and the disappearance of those who flew away before the arrival of the sun
I am coming to understand inheritance,
some say our ancestors could walk across the sky
that the world could never be consumed with darkness
because stars were embedded in their skin.
I am writing to tell you, the water rose above our heads but we refused to drown.
We found our wings, and we are free in a world beyond this one
Something we could not see held everything together,
one day it snapped, and the sky wept for 300 days.
This letter is for those who cannot swim—those who will learn to fly after me.
Listen to me; water holds no footprints, no records of those who refused to drown. This does not mean the women before you did not teach themselves to walk across the ocean. Or that they have not left a path for you to discover what it means to be free.
Find the women who carry medicine and testimony on their tongues. Sermons and cowries braided into their hair—revelation written across their palms. Women who will love you in a dialect you can understand. Those who will walk with you until you’re whole, again.
By Rashida James-Saadiya
there were those who grew tired of waiting,
filled suitcases with half their lives
we watched from the windows, saw the water rise and gather them up
yet when it settled there was only silence
after each death, it was as if the sky wept more
perhaps on our behalf and life as we knew it,
slowly became the color of heartache
my people made no attempt to leave,
common sense persuaded us to stay
considering no one amongst us could swim
overtime we learned a thunderstorm is also a sermon
and water, like all living things, is from God, but it will still kill you
I am writing to tell you the colonized world we came from could not be mended.
That we never learned to swim. So, we flew away
Women with stars under their skin, took care of our bodies,
when we only wanted food, they showed us how to be still,
how to use our tongues, to fold and release what we’d been trained to season and swallow
At night they would whisper,” the universe is inside your body, the map for moving forward lives in your chest, there are wings in your back, find them.”
I am writing to tell you that pain is not the best teacher,
but it comes with the privilege of being alive
Time is real but also a creation of those who invade
Last night we placed them on a self, adjacent to all false idols
We are slowly mending the damage, time is medicine now
I measure each day by dreams,
and the disappearance of those who flew away before the arrival of the sun
I am coming to understand inheritance,
some say our ancestors could walk across the sky
that the world could never be consumed with darkness
because stars were embedded in their skin.
I am writing to tell you, the water rose above our heads but we refused to drown.
We found our wings, and we are free in a world beyond this one
Something we could not see held everything together,
one day it snapped, and the sky wept for 300 days.
This letter is for those who cannot swim—those who will learn to fly after me.
Listen to me; water holds no footprints, no records of those who refused to drown. This does not mean the women before you did not teach themselves to walk across the ocean. Or that they have not left a path for you to discover what it means to be free.
Find the women who carry medicine and testimony on their tongues. Sermons and cowries braided into their hair—revelation written across their palms. Women who will love you in a dialect you can understand. Those who will walk with you until you’re whole, again.
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