Who Said Flowers Don’t Grow in the Hood
He creeps into her room again
Steals a seat next to her on the bed
Innocence trickles down her cheek in rivers
She is a beautiful rosita with under-aged thorns
and he knows this
but it doesn't stop the over-grown and
oil-stained fingers from brushing
secrets up between her thighs
"Shhh, little baby...I'm just here to get mine..."
She is only 15 and has dreams of becoming a writer
The next Maya
with the power of Sonia, Cherrie, and Audre
But how can you rise
if your roots are tangled with
secrets and eyes too blind to see?
"Don't tell your mom. What we do is between you and me..."
She always did find it ironic
how these screams -
these Northside cries -
this perspiration of a young flower who's face is buried in the concrete -
can echo on paper
Can shift mountains in a place beyond these walls,
Yet, at the same time
can fall so silently on ears
without moving a single grain
and waiting for the rumble of words
With both hands
The man holds her face
He holds it delicately
Soft and thunderous, he whispers...
Just be easy and take your time.
Like those fancy poems you be writing
Take your time,
mi rosita mas bella”.