Jae Nichelle
Two Poems
Jesus Saves
ten cents (and the planet) when he brings his own cup to
Starbucks. it’s just his hands, scarred and leaking black
from the holes. by the time he goes to drink it’s all on
the floor. tells the same story all the baristas are sick
of—bullets not nails. pavement not wood. laid out for all
the world to see. buried. resurrected by those who
won’t stop saying his name. he hears his name, Jesus,
your everything bagel is ready. he laughs at everything.
everything. as if something could be everything.
Three Churches Burn in Louisiana
when two or more Black people gathering in the name of
preservation agree, it’s a law. I pass two or more Black
people on the street, we form a congregation
built on head nods and anonymity. my congregation not
the forgiving type. an attempt to burn two or more Black
people gathering in the name of preservation
warrants my congregation knocking on your door on a
Sunday morning just to tell you your bloodline ain’t shit.
now it’s a law. a church is where two or more Black
people gather. a church unseen cannot be burned, it’s a
law. my congregation resurrects churches & blackens
your eye faster than you can look at us. look at us.
my congregation don’t testify against other members of
the congregation. that’s a law. an embrace between two
or more Black people is silent worship of our Black
and our bodies. two or more Black people agree to
whoop the ass of the next person who tries us. I’m tired.
I need two or more Black people to embrace me.
we save each other in this congregation. we don’t wait for
external justice. we don’t seek restoration. two or more
Black people gathering in the name
of preservation have died for just that. my congregation
disguises a laying of hands as a handshake. they’re
praying for me. me and the still warm ground.