In the blistering heat, under
the scalding sun.
In a climate so dry-so harsh-
that it withers and sucks
life from the skin
and lungs and
throat and tongue.
Threatening to turn the living to
ash and bone.
There they are,
the creosotes. Blooming a
bright gold; their petals
reflective of the sun. Thriving
in an environment that brings death
far too easily. Tell me,
doesn't that sound like
every black woman you know?
YOU ARE READING
Where the Flowers Bloom Unwatered
PoetryA collection of poems written throughout several stages in life, journeying through the human condition through the lens of black girlhood and black womanhood.
