Grits Be Still
This be the miracle before the fish fry for the 5,000.
This be ancestral spell to make po’ days feel like brunch days.
This be a southern delicacy.
This be a po’ man’s brunch, dinner, or lunch.
This dish be amazing before you say grace.
This piece… be about grits.
The size of my hunger be the size of a cornmeal grain.
A bowl of grits on Sunday morning tastes like southern drawl
that lives on the corner of “Tabernacle Baptist” and
“Wish a Muva Luva Wood” with a mason jar of moonshine.
In the book of grits, we eat by taste and always by sight.
My mother abides by the Holy instructions that be her mother’s recipe.
Grits: Chapter salt and pepper verse butter and water.
Stir it on medium till it becomes thicker
than the bass of my grandmother’s prayers.
Treat these grits like an offering basket and add some cheese.
Mix it and whisper “be still” to the lake of Quakers
and let your lips cover your spoon in tongues
so that you may rejoice and be glad in it.
This white grain be the closest
crack my mama let live under her roof.
Her mother used to showcase miracles in her kitchen.
Feeding nine children with six, Garcia sausages,
three eggs, and one pot of grits.
Season her grits with parables and prophecies,
cover ‘em with strength and wisdom,
Mother Roundtree had hands of God
that sat on the throne of “Peace Be Still” or
“These hands will make you be still”.
She abided by the Holy instructions that be her Lord and ancestors.
Bring it to a boil and let it sit on low;
covered with the Blood of Jesus.
Treat her grits like her children,
she prayed before the world devoured them.
They got mixed up some secret family recipes.
Relatives told them to, “be still” and
covered their lips so that not even God
could hear their prayers.
This white grain was the closest
crack my grandmother let live under her roof.
A descendant of creators,
now I carry this recipe on my back to feed the Calvary.
Non-believers became disciples seeing how generations of grit
can make even Christ gain his strength through me.
I started to eat with faith and devour all in sight.
I abide by the Holy instructions that be my mother’s recipe except…
I allowed a little bit of sugar to get loose into the ingredients…
of myself
not them grits.
At least, that’s the only thing all three of us
can agree on truly being an abomination.
Grits: Chapter salt and pepper verse cream and butter.
Stir it on medium till it becomes thicker than
the tension between old and new testaments–
I meant
mothers–
I meant
daughters–
I meant
recipes
that get mixed up in some generational recipes.
I live on the corner of “Tabernacle of Deliverance”
and “I’ll Deliver This Peace Thru This Steel”.
Tithe my grits with cheese and
befoul my plate with a sin of shrimp.
Decorate my bowl with the weight of my damnation
and stop when I can’t bear.
Let your lips press together in the form of an “Amen”
when you speak in tongues recognizing
that this is the grits that I have made.
You gon’ rejoice and be glad in it.
This faith the size of a cornmeal grain was the best sobriety from the crack that never lived under my roof.
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What I Give To God
I tried to give my life to God once.
It didn’t work out.
I didn’t have enough faith in Her plan.
A decade and some years ago,
I tried again.
The second attempt was a dud.
I thought God was breathing life into me
but deep breaths were filled with sulfur.
Ashes from the Wednesday night Bible studies
for the rainbow bodies I craved between my legs,
soot leaks from the corners of my mouth whenever
I recite a Bible verse because it burns like Her children’s love.
haven’t tried to give my life back to God in eight years.
Call me an atheist, but I’d like to keep it that way.
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Block Schedule
I see myself as a pencil.
Used for everything,
worth less than nothing.
Always used for mistakes,
never for permanency.
I be the drumstick
for makeshift 808 trap
beats during class.
I be the tomahawk
flying across rooms,
aiming for your dome.
I be the airplane carrying
love notes for star-crossed
lovers in fourth period literature.
My head remembers everything
you try to erase about me.
My feet leave a trail on
every page that I touch.
Over time, I thought my skills
would be sharper but I’m
wearing myself out,
getting duller by each test session.
This lead is getting close to where my head is.
I put my thoughts on paper for public view.
The exposure is killing me.
I’m dying from lead poisoning;
I wonder,
how many blanks will I draw against the canvas?
For how long?
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Poetry (c) Quin Killin’
Image: ChatGPT modified