Who said flowers don't grow in the hood

He snuck into her room again
Sat down next to her
Oil-stained fingers brushing
Up her thigh

She is 15 and has dreams of becoming a writer
The next Maya
With the power of Sonia, Cherrie, and Audre
She always found it funny
and amazing
how screams -
these Northside cries -
can echo on paper
shifting mountains
somewhere,
Yet they fall so silently on ears,
without moving a single grain
still
quiet and waiting.

With both hands
He holds her face
He holds it delicately
Soft and thunderously
He whispers:
“Be easy
Take your time
Like those fancy poems you be writing
Take your time,
mi rosita mas bella”.