By Deija Vinson
Cover image by Jenifer Daniels
Detroit:
A question mark
Sometimes,
Detroit be lookin’ lost,
be lookin’ like a unnamed constellation
every project a mispronounced star
Be curled hair like vines clinging to loose bricks,
Detroit be
skippin stones
skippin down cobblestones
towards headstones
be the feel of goosebumps when silence happens
be new shoes scuffed at bus stops
be so salty
we be wondering why streets so holy
be a mutha-funker
be a mosaic of broken bottles
and laughter.
be open mouths tryna catch snow
in summer
be scratched records on car scraps
be slinging they pain like gas money
be 12 hung men
be tarot cards
and sage leaves
Detroit be a Twilight Zone,
every hood a byline of synesthesia
Luna-
ticking off disciples
like two birds one stone
be controlling/
controlled by
the tides
be the last thing standing between us and dirt
be a sound mama makes
Be so Mama
we be buying flowers on the second Sunday in May
and leaving them on the street
as homage
Detroit be home
be clicked heels and Aunt Em
and orange
be shaped like how community sounds,
Confused.
Infused with condemned confidence
be an act of Rebellion
the Evolve in Revolution
be potholes driven over, sounding like the heartbeat of the ghetto
Detroit be like the sun,
too busy tryna be a metaphor
Deija Vinson is 19, a recent grad of Cleveland School of The Arts, and has an unhealthy dependence on coffee. She is currently an instructor at Twelve Literary Arts’ One Mic Open Fellowship, as well as Artistic Director of the youth poetry performance group, Six of Twelve.
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