Nicole Shanté White
Re/lease
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elbows erect | wrists glissade to spiral at the spine | nape folds | shoulders blade
we couldn’t talk to mama within the first 30 minutes after she came home 30 minutes that was her mantra I need ma 30 minutes her cellphone would bump against her collarbone as she babbled about dem white folks at da job dat got her fucked up she didn’t even want fingers fidget before clasping the chamber bolt | the code is woven | right strap dives after to know if I took the chicken out to thaw or if Shayla got on the red light at school again I need ma 30 minutes she’d take her shoes off drop her bag by the sofa still babbling my sister would come running talmbout I was on the yellow today mama right when she was first in-swing | becomes a short sleeve hem | then quarter | clink getting to the good part 30 minutes guh mama put her hands behind her back unclamping her bra while walking to her room still babbling she’d scratch her sternum as she passed us doing homework in the living room we always heard the underwire plop on the floor mama’s bras were left strap tickles sparked strands | cups coast | tender dollops of flesh dribble big enough to eat cereal out of then she’d close her door let 30 minutes turn into 51 on a decent day we’d meet her again in the kitchen barefoot titties just a swingin against one of them little night gowns that stopped mid-thigh what ya’ll learn elastic slopes palms | left strap slices tips at school today |
I Write Live Until It Is Lie
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I save us all the trouble pull a ripe one from the list I say scheduling conflict
on the days my body doesn’t recognize my voice hops on a last minute flight to a country plagued by myopia how can the class you hired me to teach fit on my to-do listI write live until it is lie I say family emergency when my body can’t figure out what to do with all of this blood I say transportation issues when my legs lock just as I am heading out the door if I somehow manage to drag these dead things all the way to the meetingto the dance classto this poetry show I say train delay my body is always the train praise these days when I am at least a route of steel sometimes I am a statue in a dark room once a lover barged in rambling scripture poured honey by the pots some come offering fistfuls of flesh when my body is hell bent on shedding one froze her thighs on my cheeks tried to ride the numbness off my face some close the door behind them like the floor ain’t flooding like my mattress ain’t shackle the headboard sandpaper the air heavy handed one chased the light switch for a yearmaybe still wading in the corner most don’t know how to sit outside don’t know what to do with my laughafter you’re the sad girl you don’t get to be anything else my ma & sister call to lecture about my vanishing acts I stew another metaphor say someone broke into my apartment and I’ve been busy trying to figure out who disappeared with alla my stuff my ma urges me to file a police report my sister asks if it happened to anyone else on my block I say Nikkishe/her pronouns I’m here because sometimes I can’t feel anythingbecause today is a victory I maybe didn’t want to keep secretbecause sometimes I go missing and I want to keep finding excuses to visit |
Chaperone
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they approach in pairs, quads, and mobs, squirm to make
their communal urge appear coincidental. i let Smeared Lipstick through. Pizza Pothole jets pass my open invitation with greasy hand over fringe. threaded in a range from easter sunday to saturday scrimmage, the limbs jolt to challenge my stance. i turn Bubblicious Popping Squad towards the gym’s best lighting, stopping bathroom sink selfies one middle school at a time. bodies find synchronicity when the dj decides it’s time to whip and nae nae. adele’s hello follows and even the science teacher bellows. Tetrad of Loose Shoestrings beg for fresh air. the vice principal raises eyebrows at my gate keeping until catching a whiff of Seventh Grade Flirtatious Hair Flips. a pair of sealed fists come swinging – Sleepy Bra Strap cups free palm over my ear whispers i need to get a pad out of my locker for Gold Hoops. i could pry the ploy or pretend not to notice the magnets in their hips. Sleepy Bra Strap’s two-tone rimless glasses don’t make any sense until it’s 2004 & i’m a thirteen year old riddle pressing my mini denim skirt against Framed Midriff’s pelvis. daddy yankee’s gasolina boils the ponds of tinted lip gloss & powder pink bandanas. even mrs. prelwitz is doing some white version of ciara’s one two step. Framed Midriff & I graze noses & vanish where the varsity panthers plié for jumpball. Gold Hoops beams when I create an alley. they return with spent lips and my heart leaks all over the double doors. |
NICOLE SHANTÉ WHITE is definitely the quiet one yo mama warned you about. She is a cluster of Midwest accents and Southern hospitality. Currently residing in Brooklyn, Nicole Shanté writes, dances, and teaches from a black queer womanist lens. A recipient of Poets House's 2016 Emerging Poet Fellowship, her work has been published by gracious folks at Wussy Mag, The Feminist Wire, 92Y, and Wall Street. She'd rather you be impressed by her functional addiction to ice cream and her deliberate decision to breathe.
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