you will never have another heart. better to grow the one you were born with.

aside from faith, as far as you know, you will never have another heart. better to grow the one you were born with. fill it with blood & love. risk. let the strange world sneak inside. accept all of life in your chest. death is the end of percussion. breathe deeply, the music will function. listen close. freedom thaws in your ribcage. dance with vehemence to feel its fast-pumping. tempt two lips to greet your throat & take note: your racing pulse will laugh & kiss back. god is strong in the clock of your desire. every tick, my friend, divine confirmation: you are alive. beat. yes! you are alive

— Lenelle Moïse, Anahata (Smith College, Spring 2011)

The children of immigrants don't get to be children. We lose our innocence watching our parents' backs bend, break. I am an old soul because when I am young, I watch my parents' spirits get slaughtered. When I am a child, my childhood is a luxury my family cannot afford. Their dignity is not spared, so my innocence is not spared. They are humiliated and traumatized daily, so I become a nurse to their trauma. I am told too much, so I know too much, so I am wise beyond my years.

Lenelle Moïse

the children of haiti are not mythological we are starving or eating salty cakes made of clay because in 1804 we felled our former slave captors the graceless losers sunk vindictive yellow teeth into our forests what was green is now dust and everyone knows trees unleash oxygen (another humble word for life) they took off with our torn branches beheaded our future stuck our breath up on pikes for all the world to see we are a living dead example of what happens to warriors who in lieu of fighting for white men's countries dare to fight for their own lives during carnival we could care less about our bloated empty bellies where there are voices we are dancing where there is vodou we are horses where there are drums we are possessed with joy and stubborn jamboree but when the makeshift trumpet player runs out of rhythmic breath the only sound left is guts grumbling and we sigh to remember that food and freedom are not free is haiti really free if our babies die starving? if we cannot write our names read our rights keep our leaders in their seats? can we be free? really? if our mothers are mud? if dead columbus keeps cursing us and nothing changes when we curse back we are a proud resilient people though we return to dust daily salt gray clay with hot black tears savor snot cakes over suicide we are hungry creative people sip bits of laughter when we are thirsty dance despite this asthma called debt congesting legendarily liberated lungs

from mud mothers by Lenelle Moise

my poem wears a skirt and tells the truth the only blush on her brushed on cinnamon her name she shameless my poem flaunts sequins clutches dutch wax headscarves struts in hand-painted clogs for comfort fishnet stockings just because my poem’ll turn her head when you whine freda holds mirrors for court conch shell for microphone skinny-dips in chango storms twerks by moonlight smears honey on what stings then swats it the only yellow on her a gift from the old worshipped sun poem makes flat broke look stately had to borrow one of frida’s skirts gold dusted seaweed hemmed solar flared with five embroidered roses silk wool blend dotted with azure beads one pocket full of graphite pencils the other heavy with citrine and yes skirt long to cover stiff legs running in time with ella’s gibberish saturday long to catch the wind like monarchs the only stain on her my own inky thumbprints and the lipstick i kissed there myself

Kissed There Myself by Lenelle Moise

anahata by Lenelle Moïse

aside from faith, as far as you know, you will never have another heart. better to grow the one you were born with. fill it with blood and love. risk. let the strange world sneak inside. accept all of life in your chest. death is the end of percussion. breathe deeply, the music will function. listen close. freedom thaws in your ribcage. dance with vehemence to feel its fast-pumping. tempt two lips to greet your throat and take note: your racing pulse will laugh and kiss back. god is strong in the clock of your desire. every tick, my friend, divine confirmation: you are alive. beat. yes! you are alive.

laughter was our wettest thing

poem excerpt, lenelle moise                           source image

Day 3399 - Lenelle Moise . . . #playwright #playwrights #playwrightsofinstagram #LenelleMoise #dramaturg #playwrightADay https://www.instagram.com/quietprocess/p/CYnA4vAJ6D6/?utm_medium=tumblr

"jazz is underwater / vodou atlantis mute / aborted ultrasound" - Lenelle Moise

Good morning, internet! xo, SPD

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This week I invite you closer into my personal life to walk through a remembering/honoring of the violent murder of my dog companion, Phoenix, eight years ago to the day. Gun violence is perpetual under male supremacy and this experience brought it to my hearth as it has come to so many women around the world, maybe even yours. I hope that this personal sharing touches and strengthens you and the entire Liberation Movement on the planet. If you want to read more of my personal walk through this experience, I invite you to gently read it at: phxlabyrinth.blogspot.com. Thank you for your kind ears.

Play List:

Wild Wolf (in background) Solitudes Manaus Tellu As Cold as it Gets Patti Griffin Stop Killing Us Lenelle Moise If it were up to me Cheryl Wheeler The Women Gather Sweet Honey in the Rock Howl at the Moon Cheryl Wheeler House of Bones Cris Williamson Song For Mia Liz Wright The Water is Wide Lucie Blue Tremblay Little Room Cris Williamson Heavenly Day Patti Griffin The Crazies Cris Williamson

"Madivinez"-Lenelle Moïse

The Caribbean African Student Association and The Black Student Union at Clark hosted this wonderful event, featuring the powerful and inspiring Lenelle Moise, this week. The event featured Clark students performing their original pieces on issues surrounding race, xenophobia, cultural appropriation, identity etc. , as well as pieces by Maya Angelou , Stacey Chinn and other great writers of color. Lenelle Moise conducted series of workshop to help the students, and shared her piece for Basquiat.