Lessons In Healing

 

healing begins whenever you are ready

 

my grandma rocks her face

North Philly mean on a 5’0 frame

fingers painted gold

baby powder on her chest

tongue out like shave my legs for what

titties small  you only need but a mouthful

like         Ashley, you bettah keep your receipts

no matter how good

it seemed when you bought it

you bettah make sure

you have the means to return it

when it no longer serves you

let that be known

as her first lesson in healing

 

my grandma shared a bed with my molester for 40 years.

when she found out where grandpa’s hands had been

She shook her head what a sick, sick man

 

it was 15 years ago, memories have crawled

fetal position into corners

of my flashbacks

still, i wonder if in that moment she was thankful

to never have daughters.

 

my grandma wears baby powder on her chest

so you never have to see her sweat

but i imagine her soaking

in salt water baths in the middle of night

a tear each time he called

her name from downstairs

 

i imagine her walking her own hallways in mourning

widowed to intimacy hands moldering

to ashes

 

let this be her second lesson in healing

it is not always pretty

 

have you never seen an open wound gash?

bleed. then puss. spit mucus. and scab

 

my Grandma stayed in that house

slept in that bed

woke up to that sick, sick man

she had a husband to take care of

two full grown dependent sons

blacker than prison industrial complex

unable to survive without sacrifice

of another mother’s dignity

 

did she lock her bedroom door in the evening?

did she become a prisoner in her own home?

is there really such thing as home when your house is black womxn?

 

but, my grandma keeps her reciepts

rolled up inside her wallet

next to her credit card

the one she bought her a plane ticket with

the plane ticket that was one way

back home. to her mother.

 

my grandma served her lemonade without sugar that day

told her son’s i’m sorry but my love cannot be masochistic

told her husband  i sold the house that was never home

told the men where you go is no longer my problem

 

healing begins whenever you are ready

 

even at age sixty-five

she went and crawled in bed with her mother

let her sister laugh life back into her

taught me her third lesson in healing

 

understanding that a black woman has a home

with walls made of other black women

 

h e a l i n g

is returning what no longer serves me

is investing the return back into myself

is remodeling the bedroom

 

so after 15 years

i can finally invite my granddaughter

to crawl into a safe bed

when she needs a place to heal

without locking the door from the inside

---

Ashley Davis is California born and raised, New York educated, Boston bred, Philly based black , queer, womxn, poet, educator whose work is personal and performed with the intention to connect to those around her in order to build community and continue healing. Ashley was a part of the VONA 2017 cohort facilitated by Patricia Smith, was a part of the 2016 Finalist team “House Slam” at the National Poetry Slam, and was a finalist for the 2016 National Underground Individual Poetry Competition. She currently lives with her grandmother and great-grandmother connecting to her spirit guides, learning her craft, and protecting her energy. Connect with her on Instagram: @ashleydavis_art Twitter: @ashleydavisart