WHAT WE HAVE

Our men do not belong to us. Even my own father, left one afternoon, is not mine. My brother is in

prison, is not mine. My uncles, they go back home and they are shot in the head, are not mine. My
cousins, stabbed in the street for being too—or not—enough, are not mine.
Then the men we try to love, say we carry too much loss, wear too much black, are too heavy to be
around, much too sad to love. Then they leave and we mourn them too. Is that what we’re here for? To sit
at kitchen tables, counting on our fingers the ones who died, those who left and the others who were taken
by the police, or by drugs, or by illness or by other women. It makes no sense. Look at your skin, her
mouth, these lips, those eyes, my God, listen to that laugh. The only darkness we should allow into our
lives is the night, and even then, we have the moon