ahistorical accuracies

I have this dream—

they find me

wading in corn fields,

my eyes like the stalk

center of sunflower petals.

The lucky ones hide

where they won’t be found,

squatting in dirt, shrouded

in grain and girlhood. Here,

they will lay me to rest.

Nineteen. Vulnerable.

Here, I die from the casket

of myself. Holy part, chosen.

Youth spooned

from my center.

No books prepared me

for the others who are not.

I rise. My hips too big, nose, lips,

hair kinky as nobody’s truth.

Deep in the maze,

I am sniffed out,

reminded that no one asked

this body to spread—

legs gaped and arms

pinned in high Georgia sun.

My black like the black

of burial, lock boxes under

bedposts, archival corners.

I am not your [REDACTED].

But say you want me;

the lucky ones will scatter

ashes, petals, and summer

pollen. Not these books.

I am deep in heat, a grip,

these shouts. Hollering—

emboldened

or damaged—

which ears can tell

this truth?

Author’s Note: “Ahistorical Accuracies” attempts to articulate what it’s like to learn history in a predominately white space. It’s that feeling when the words in the textbook don’t quite match the stories told by your aunts, uncles, and grandparents. When the missing parts are so loud that you can’t hear the professor, so you sit there filling in the blanks yourself.