juneteenth dreams

i was in a brownstone in brooklyn with this sweet older black couple. he says to me, with this twinkle in his eye, ‘come down and see what i have’. and she says, ‘oh harold. he loves to show off. go on go on.’

he opens a red door next to a bay window, and i realize that isn’t possible. the stairs beyond the door are piles of books. he makes his way down easily, i slowly pick my way down, wanting it all to be more solid. but i’m charmed.

we get to the basement and there is a slender blue black boychild tending a massive table, a table shaped like a continent, growing all over with little seedlings. there are intricate systems of sprinklers over it, and lights hung low and close, little pictures in cordoned off sections of this verdant basement table. there are shelves floor to ceiling farther than my eye can see, full of little packets and pictures and instructions. bees move amongst the green.

it smells like life down here, and i suddenly feel tears in my eyes.

‘you know what it is don’t you girl?’

i nod. i thought he was a myth.

‘and he’s the next one.’ harold nods over at the young man, ‘next seedkeeper. you do this too, i know. i see you.’

somewhere between the basement and my house i leave my scarf and the rain comes back to brooklyn.

conversations with the universe

me: give me one reason to stay in detroit, to let it be a home. please.
universe: loving it is enough of a reason. but i will give you two other reasons. (whispers)
me: oh. :-) thank you.

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