Saianne Bryant

i know family
cemetery dirt
caked under my nails
bloodied fingertips
this combination
an infection brewing in
my bloodstream
like de-oxy-ri-bo-nu-cle-ic acid
my next breath
hot glued
to the roof of my lungs
i know community
clawing
nails ripped from their beds
scraping
past the gravel and ash
digging
through the dirt
of our childhood homes
i know love
and all that one does
in its absence

medusa and i
hang out on weekends
b.y.o.b.
bring your own blindfold.
one day I asked
as i sat between her knees
“do you hold a grudge against athena?”
i could hear the soft smile
in her exhale.
“no” she said
“we live in a world
where men act like gods
and gods act like men.”
she proceeded to tell me
the type of story
girls bond over
in college dorm rooms
when the boys are away
and the men are at bay.
a story of a god who hurt her
and how athena gave her
snakes and stones,
similar to how we give
our daughters
pepper spray,
and our sisters
the lessons
we bled to learn,
athena knew
we cannot cling to our sisters forever—
the men will return.
instead of boiling water
she sets my braids in venom.
after maneuvering me
around statues
of men
who returned
as they do
she kisses my cheek
and tells me,
“text me when you get home.”