Taylor Steele
If A Black Woman Became The Joker
I wish I could remember the first time I held a knife. Perhaps an Independence Day and
gramma’s potato salad, the pre-cise chop of soft thing.
Now, there is a dying black boy on my bed; plant a flag-shovel here and call it our-his home. I catch all his
blood-sweat in my mouth-hands, and I can’t help but laugh. He is just so beautiful, a joke made as the sky falls.
I must have felt so alive that first time, so I try to relive what it might have been. I find
the bodied, examine their wounding, the face — was it a happy one? Must not have been,
must’ve been
why I started carving smiles in every dead black boy I came across. It shouldn’t have been
as easy as it was — the finding, the carving. But a dead black boy is as common as a fist in a
fight, whether that be: brawl, womb, mouth.
And a knife is a gilded angel, a dead black boy’s snapped halo sharpened by a prayer’s
teeth. A knife is a miracle. How it gifts me the ability to turn back time for the dead
black boys. Building them a new last moment, one where gunshots are
balloons p o p p i n g, and the lack of sirens is the lull before everyone jumps out from
behind the couch to yell HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Now, there is a dying black boy on my bed, like a dream whispered so soft,
you'd think it was a ghost. He's almost a ghost. Not in the almost-white way, but in his
willowing wind breath and how it shivers my spine. He wants help, and I tell him that's what I’m
doing. He heaves a cry, eyes pointing at the knife in my hand.
And I know a part of him knows he'll be gone soon, and not at my hands. I simply found
him, an almost-roadkill. The badges, too distracted trying to find a decent enough lie to hide
this black boy inside of, didn't notice
me dragging the black on top of the black through the black to the black. What you need
to understand is, he’s gonna die regardless. He would never have been avenged. The only
question now is:
do you wanna die with a smile on your face? Or, I can wait ‘til you’re dead. Either way, you’re gonna be found
grinning. Either way, my lasting image of you will be a happy one. I never get to see that, ya know? See black boys go out happy.
I wish I could remember the first time I held a knife. Perhaps an Independence Day and
gramma’s potato salad, the pre-cise chop of soft thing.
Now, there is a dying black boy on my bed; plant a flag-shovel here and call it our-his home. I catch all his
blood-sweat in my mouth-hands, and I can’t help but laugh. He is just so beautiful, a joke made as the sky falls.
I must have felt so alive that first time, so I try to relive what it might have been. I find
the bodied, examine their wounding, the face — was it a happy one? Must not have been,
must’ve been
why I started carving smiles in every dead black boy I came across. It shouldn’t have been
as easy as it was — the finding, the carving. But a dead black boy is as common as a fist in a
fight, whether that be: brawl, womb, mouth.
And a knife is a gilded angel, a dead black boy’s snapped halo sharpened by a prayer’s
teeth. A knife is a miracle. How it gifts me the ability to turn back time for the dead
black boys. Building them a new last moment, one where gunshots are
balloons p o p p i n g, and the lack of sirens is the lull before everyone jumps out from
behind the couch to yell HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Now, there is a dying black boy on my bed, like a dream whispered so soft,
you'd think it was a ghost. He's almost a ghost. Not in the almost-white way, but in his
willowing wind breath and how it shivers my spine. He wants help, and I tell him that's what I’m
doing. He heaves a cry, eyes pointing at the knife in my hand.
And I know a part of him knows he'll be gone soon, and not at my hands. I simply found
him, an almost-roadkill. The badges, too distracted trying to find a decent enough lie to hide
this black boy inside of, didn't notice
me dragging the black on top of the black through the black to the black. What you need
to understand is, he’s gonna die regardless. He would never have been avenged. The only
question now is:
do you wanna die with a smile on your face? Or, I can wait ‘til you’re dead. Either way, you’re gonna be found
grinning. Either way, my lasting image of you will be a happy one. I never get to see that, ya know? See black boys go out happy.
Taylor Steele is a Bronx-born, Brooklyn-based writer, educator and performer. Her work can be found at Apogee Journal, Drunk in a Midnight Choir, Rogue Agent, Blackberry: a Magazine, and more. Her chapbook "Dirty.Mouth.Kiss" is available on Pizza Pi Press. Taylor has written for The Body is Not an Apology, Anomalous Press (formerly Drunken Boat Journal), and Philadelphia Printworks. An internationally ranked spoken word artist, she has been featured by Huffington Post, Brooklyn Poets, Button Poetry and is a 2016 Pushcart Nominee. Most importantly, Taylor is a triple-Taurus who believes in the power of art to change, shape, and heal.