Bismillah. Bisinka yasiinka Hadi aan ku bilaawo Waa xijaabantahay. I know we got roots. Got family trees. I know my mama pray on me. We got, we got, we got, roots. Got family trees. I know my mama pray on me. I rename this language for the orchestra’s second string. As in the ones that come after and still play in unison, still, fill everything. I give thanks for the hands speaking an invisible language, directing entire orchestras with every sentence. Nowadays, I only speak my mother tongue in watered-down poems, or in line at the store with too many white folks, or over the phone with relatives whose names I don’t know, or when kneeling in prayer and the Arabic of my holy book can’t hold my deepest fears the way a mother does. Nights, when I’m left searching for all the words that can’t fit the war in my mouth. I ask myself, which language knows the words that are hurting, is familiar with the inside of a ribcage. can recognize the borders and pick out the flagpoles. Which language remembers this body was once a country? Is now spilling at the seams with stories, has split itself, and has been broken. I know we got roots. Got family trees, I know my mama pray on me. I come from heavy accents, ones that carry the weight of many languages. I come from English that has never been broken, from rhythm and beauty in the pauses. So I fill the space in syllables with stories Reminding me that home is with me still. in the way I move, the way I talk with my hands, directing entire orchestras with every sentence. Reminding me, that I am too much body, too much sway with the music, too much love, too much loud to go anywhere anytime soon. Birthed, from brightly colored garments and words you can take a bite out of. Words that command attention and demand to be heard. I come from hospitality and crowded living rooms. So stay, drink tea swimming with qarfo And we will likely speak in second-string metaphors with words that come and go like ghosts. And I will tell you about a place that split itself, a generation of hybrids, and the way my parents English wages a small war each time they speak. How an immigrant speaking a stolen tongue taught me to love with all my being, be the velvet that holds the moon, be full leaf, and blooming flower. I will tell you what my parent’s English taught me about the sky. About the way, it breaks itself with every rainfall in hopes something good will come after. Something good will come after. x 5

Caught a space ship flew to mars. Call it an afro future universe. See my visions got blessings on me. See that bent stem. New moon. Sunrise. Honeybee. I know that loving is loving is loving. I love you the way that you love me. Loving myself in this body is a necessary act of survival. So, I remedy the bent stem with honey. Watch it grow from the root. Like drawing bile from the blood Like drawing water from the clouds. The revolution begins with the breath in my lungs. The revolution begins when I choose joy. Self-love is Black love (and) I am love itself. I know that loving is loving is loving. I love you the way that you love me. I know that loving is loving is loving. I love you the way that you love me. Caught a space ship flew to mars. Call in an afro future universe.

Water what you plant. You better water what you plant x2 We got roots in higher places, We got roots in outer space. We got roots in higher places, We got roots in outer space. Suckle the gristle. Kiss your teeth. Wrap your hair up. Grow like the trees. I’ve always known to let the broken comb sing her praises. So I can begin again each morning as if in ritual. I’ve learned to beat my hair into submission. For the interview, the classroom, For all the times I need how to code-switch my way into the white of a stranger’s room. I know hooyo’s favorite love language is a labor of twist and braid The rhythm of the unsung strand, How a spiral learns to keep time with its own reversal. What I am is what I’ll be. x 5 You better water what you plant. Grow like the trees. x 3 Repetition is the first way my hair taught me, love. For what is love if not a willingness to begin again. A willingness to return. Repetition is the first way my hair taught me patience The first to take my hands in quiet submission Ask them to slow: if even for a moment. So I could lose myself in the feverous loud . Thirty minutes into the braid out and again, in the takedown, the revival, when it becomes time to begin again. So take this poem as love letter In honor of the quiet black girl swag The Ariana Brown loud. The two-step tribe. A lesson, from the careful bend in bough. The willingness of ancient being to twist and rock and move to the music of the unwavering wind. Lose leaves in it And let it be. A lesson, that even the stubborn strand knows how to move with its own careless grace A lesson for weary hands That still find soft submission in the strength of a careful coil Your hair exists in defense of the water herself. Has learned to begin again. And endless dance rooted in the knowledge that when threatened with drowning even the trees have learned to grow. You better water what you plant X 3