Day 25, Poet 25: Dominique Christina

​Karma

We become poets 
In an attempt to tether words
To righteousness,
Our notebooks 
To social consciousness.

Sitting cross-legged and anxious in
Wing-backed chairs we 
Sip lattes to news of regimes 
Firing American-made artillery into
Crowds of folk,
Their bodies pickled by the sun
They line streets in countries 
We never think about and
We suck our teeth and 
Ask a thesaurus to become a machete

And as romantic as passivism is
These days
I dream of dictators falling headfirst 
Into karma and forget to be afraid

If I could write this shit in fire,
I would write this shit in fire.

This ain’t poetry.
It’s rage, unmuted.
A verb, a means, an end,
This is my body.
This is a sacrifice.
This is an offering. 
This is Southside Chicago,
Compton, California,
Red Hook Projects in Jersey,
Roosevelt Projects in Brooklyn.

This is severed hands.
Clubs against flesh,
Black boots to pregnant bellies,
This is sterilizations,
Inoculations,
Leg irons and chains,
The bit and the noose,

This is a war cry.
Tell Massa I’m coming back.
Carrying fire in my knapsack,
Tell him I am Patrice Lumumba
Steven Biko,
Fred Hampton,
Fannie Lou Hamer 
Harriet Tubman

Tell him they have been born again in me.

Tell him I found my mother tongue 
Buried under the rubble of 
The World Trade Center 
Tell him this shit ain’t no poem.
This is me, running naked 
From sugarcane and cotton fields 
Having dropped my croaker sack.

Tell him he can call me karma.
I am re-fleshing the bones.
A witch, a root-worker,
A sorceress, a priestess, a gangster…

Tell him this is the result of segregation.
Tell him this is the result of integration.
Tell him I have never been invisible.
Tell him he has never been invincible.
Tell him I will melt the barbed wire and 
Steel bars of prison yards
They will flow over him like lava.

I am returned 
I am blood-thirsty
I am fangs and hooks and 
Swollen feet in welfare lines,
The gauntlet thrown down,
Lines drawn in the sand
I am apocryphal.
Historical deletions gathering themselves
Up and into textbooks,
I am the niece of exploitation 
On a rice and pancake box,
Come to collect the royalties 
For Aunt Jemima and Uncle Ben…

I am a line of smoke,
A rain dance,
The tomahawk used to kill the first invader,
A passbook in South Africa,
A Whites Only sign on a courthouse door
In Mississippi,
The streets of Benghazi pocked in
Prayer beads and shell casings,
The juxtaposition of faith and savagery.

Tell him I am African wide hips and
American bulimia,
Peace symbols on assault rifles,
It is the deepest kind of contradiction.

If I could write this shit in fire,
I would write this shit in fire.

Tell Massa I’m coming back.
Howl in the wind, I’m coming back.
Bur in his heel, I’m coming back.

I’m coming back Massa.
I’m coming back Massa.

I’m coming back. 


Previously published in They Are All Me  (Swimming With Elephants Publications)

Dominique Christina is a mother, published author of three books, licensed educator, 2x Women of the World Slam Champion, 2011 National Poetry Slam Champion, 2013 National Underground Poetry Individual Slam Champion, social agitator, and intersectional feminist. She is the only person to win the Women of the World Championship twice. Her work is influenced by her family's legacy during the Civil Rights Movement. Her grandfather, who is in the baseball hall of fame, was a shortstop for the Kansas City Monarchs in the Negro Leagues. When he left, Jackie Robinson, who later integrated baseball, took his place. Dominique's aunt is a Congressional Medal of Honor recipient for being one of 9 students who desegregated Central High School in Little Rock Arkansas. Dominique is sought after to teach and perform at colleges and universities nationally and internationally every year. Her work appears in numerous literary journals and anthologies, the Huffington Post, IBTimes, Upworthy, Poetry Magazine, etc. http://www.dominiquechristina.com/