Altar

There is an altar that I carry with me,

It is made up of the stories of everyone I meet, every place I’ve made a home for

myself,

Every moment in time that I’ve plucked and pinned to myself, tucked behind my ear,

They hang like the cowries in my locs

I’ve adorned myself with these stories,

At the altar that I carry with me,

I lay offerings of flowers and dried herbs,

Pieces of a garden I tend to with my father,

Reminders of what’s on the other side of winter,

The warm smell of burnt palo santo and incense is in dedication to his home back in Jamaica,

Sitting in my uncle’s chair in his workshop watching him bring old furniture back to life, every notch in the wood is a story told a thousand times over always with the same excitement,

An unspoken promise of food and good company would gather the community to his front porch,

A sacred place,

Where they bicker and quarrel over half-drunk bottles of red stripe and games of dominoes,

Where they’d peel and cut fresh oranges and mangoes for each other,

The altar I carry is a mango tree,

Branches reaching upwards and out beckoning the community to gather at its roots,

In the warmth of the sun, they twist and dance, they take form,

They take form of my sister’s passion for art,

They take form of my brother’s talent for music,

They take the form of every artist I’ve met,

Who’ve taught me the importance of giving a voice to my art, letting it speak for itself clearly and intentionally,

They whisper reminders to me

Be bold, be brave, be warry,

It is your birthright to create,

I offer books at the altar,

Stories of rebellion, love, reconstruction, poetry

I carry the stories of activists and creators with skin like mine loudly claiming their place in this world,

I’ve become this quilt of stories woven into mine,

Faces and places intertwined with one another,

I feel their strings on the web tether and tighten,

I celebrate their joy,

I comfort them in their grief,

I pay homage to the beautiful people and things that bring me back to myself and lay them at my altar,

I carry with me the gentlest, boldest, most colorful parts of the lives I’ve lived,

My altar,

My mango tree, is dedicated to the passage of time that transforms,

To burning wood,

To crafting and rebellion,

To fresh fruit,

In every beautiful story I carry with me, of friends and strangers alike,

I am reminded that mine is worth sharing,

Gather round with me at the Altar,

And I will pluck and peel my fruit for you,

There is always enough to go around

about the poet

I’ve been writing poetry since I was in high school and it’s not an exaggeration when I say it saved me, my writing has helped me through some of the darkest times in my life and has taught me to appreciate the light when it comes. Every piece is a reflection of me, my heritage and my very core. I’m very grateful whenever I get the chance to share my work, and I try my best to honour the past versions of myself that were too afraid to.