Valle Del Chota

Even at the age of four,
Our conversations secretly exchange plight.

To her,
I am an anomaly

Un africano
que no habla Español.

To me, I am la hermana
Only separated by a route.

I do not tell them why my tongue is built to chew o’s
Or why my n’s do not curl like ocean waves.

I say nothing about how our blood pumps to the same cadence,
Or how our skin is incompatible to the wintry cold

Mis pequenitos,

To spry,
To pure,

To eager to know
About the stories that sit beneath our skin

I say to them, I was born in America.
They say ok
And run right along


DC Compared

A lullaby of smells sashaying through each region,
Shifty and low,
Wet with murkiness
Rotten fruit stuck in between the crevices,
Sweetbreads peaking behind dusty bricks,
And friendly smells like coffee.

There’s nothing familiar to identify here,
Neutral like work clothes,
Blank palettes,
Of nothing spiritual,
Or reviving,
Reminding you of life,
Nothing at all.

The arrogance
Of this city.



Careening between tracks, we sway
From 8:30 til’ 9:00am
Monday through Friday
Coffee in hand,
Paper spread wide,
Drudgery on face.

A humorous poem about my host mother

My host mother likes to call her daughter
Everyday at 12
Ring, ring
She talks over her instantly
Tells her the dog needs to come home
It’s her suppertime
She hums,
Dragging her accent through the wires of the phone.
Her daughter yells muffled by layers of dust

Five minutes later,
The dog arrives
And walks directly towards her bowl.


First Time Traveler

What’s with these feelings?
A rouse,
A hum that progressively got louder
Hankering in every thought
Weighted by “are you sure?”


A Moment



First Entranced by waves,
Second by Light bass spiraling into thunderous boom
Wrapping around each other
See sawing back and forth
Like the feet of a stallion
One taking the upbeat while the other one rest.



We are pulled towards a tucked away cabana,
To be expected.
Taking culture,
Also to be expected.
Stealing moments of escape,
In los Esmeraldas,
The beach they show on TV,
Minus the black part,
With exception to the poverty.



I leave my classmates,
To lay in an ocean
Under several African moons
Of the stolen
The transported
The bludgeoned.



One solemn prayer,
With the words of thank you
To those who were never put to sleep.


Sherese Taylor

Sherese Taylor

Sherese R. Taylor is a graduate student in the Department of Sociology at Howard University located in Washington, D.C. Her work focuses on the intersections of art; science and technology; internationalism; blackness and black women.