Mimosa in the Morning

By Marcelle McIntosh

I would love to wake up to mimosas in the morning,

And take a gulp while I’m yawning.

Shake my hair out with more naps than a newborn,

Then read the paper about who took the world by storm.

And see where the missing black people are displayed at,

Next to the car rentals and Viagra-on-discount ads.

Recycled news of black men being killed by law,

Images of protestors singing the blues with throats so raw.

I can’t breathe, don’t choke me,

I just want to go home and eat my skittles and iced tea.

Seeing all this makes me want to get stoned,

and turn into a statue, stiff with every bone.

Do a little cleansing with a bottle of cheap vodka,

to replace, to remove my genetics, my plasma.

Hopefully put life into a better perspective,

Align thoughts, ambitions and beliefs in respective order .

To think about the boy that kept me afloat,

After drowning in the ocean, while avoiding every boat.

The nights before when our juices would mix,

And we couldn’t tell the Mr. from the miss.

When two broken hearts could not even make one whole,

But each exhale released bits of soul.

I could just come at the slightest gesture of his fingertips.

And trap my pleasure, by clasping our lips.

We could’ve done anything or nothing and just do it,

Until God blesses us with the rising sun.

Then we would continue, until we raise our own.

And hope he will not be just be one more.

But for now I rather sip mimosas in the morning,

And have a day free of mourning.

Being young, black and free,

Finding my way above the waves,

and still growing,

— growing to be me.