Alexis Raymond
Who Will Clap for You?
The dreams that Black babies are born with.
Only light,
mixed,
palatable
bare witness.
In front of the cameras
the marvels
the Zendayas.
Not the Viola’s
told they're adjacent
to the greats
the whites
the Meryls.
I dream in the cells of my mother.
Big.
Bigger.
Than those of my father.
Black dreams are bombed.
That’s why I can’t write Black.
I was taught white
could poet
and Black was
Martin Luther King Jr.
Euphoria
Now I imagine
my last breaths
are calmed by
yours.
Arms raised up grasping
for soft curls and brown eyes.
Answering all the questions
I never knew to ask.
But I’m not 30.
Your face is softer with hope.
I’m 6
&
you’re chasing the ice cream truck.
I like the spongebob popsicles
with gumball eyes.
In-between my fingers is sticky
the air is hot
it drips all over my face.
You’re laughing I haven’t heard this before.
It sounds like me.
The future me, that still has you.
I twirl and twirl and twirl
Ankle in my hot pink skip-it.
Dancing just like you
to music I didn’t know you listened to.
The beat in my chest is failing.
I’m gasping for air.
Brushing the space around your fingertips
with mine.
Tears turn into a water gun fight
on a porch with your ashy knees.
My ashy knees.
Answers to questions
I didn’t know I had.
Now we’re both dead.
Brown eyes go black.
Wrinkled.
Withered.
Anger clogged your arteries.
Lack made you too hungry.
Trauma thinned your heart.
I wonder if you laid on your back
and woke up reaching for me.
Good Hair
Each braid in my hair
too tight.
Itchy scalp.
“You have too much hair
it’s why my shoulders hurt.”
My hair
is why I’m pretty.
It’s soft. It’s white.
Aunts play with it.
Pull my curls
to watch them spring back to shape.
“You know
you get more beautiful every time I see you.”
woven into my head war
each strand
white or ghetto.
No cornrows.
No weaves.
No wigs.
No sew-ins.
No edge control.
No unnatural colors.
Box braids are unprofessional
jobs won’t like those or
your updo’s
your spacebuns.
Anything that makes it hard for people behind you
to see in front of you.
Allotted certain dimensions.
Dear Afro,
You’re just too big. You take up too much space.
“Not you dear, you’re not like the other Blacks, you’re a cute Black. “
I’ll take the braids out tomorrow.
First-born Daughter
There’s boxes and I can’t find my camouflage bear.
He’s little, like a beanie baby
but we don’t do name brand here.
He has a tag. I’m not sure what it says.
My bed doesn’t have sheets.
I must be sleeping with mom tonight.
Boxes.
Boxes.
Boxes.
I might as well stay packed.
Will we be in the car? My heart races.
Oatmeal for dinner
no milk to mix in only water.
Clumpy on top of a paper plate.
I think I ate more paper than oatmeal.
My mom’s in the bathroom, the door is locked.
She must be covering her mouth with the palm of her hand.
I get on my chest, press my ear to the crack at the bottom of the door.
Feeling the ever silent vibration of fear-filled sobs.
At least she’s alive.
At least I still have a mother.
Boxes.
Boxes.
Boxes.
I can’t find my camouflage bear.
I fall asleep.
My mom must join me later
hiding her red puffy eyes.
We must not have paid.
It happened so fast, again.
I wonder what I’ll have tomorrow?
My bed?
My books?
What will I have to pretend not to miss this time?
I saw a movie once, a family packing, and a yard filled with movers.
Looking to the empty driveway and back to my mom
I remember I am strong.
Playing a game in my head. One like a survivor challenge.
My mom likes that show. I think she’s seen every season.
How many boxes can one little girl move?
16.
Until my arms turn to jello.
Mmmmmmmmm, jello.
I’m hungry.
I know better than to ask.
I was right about my bed.
I sleep better in the car anyway.
Movement feels like home.
The passing lights remind me of tomorrow.
I just hope she packed my camouflage bear.
America’s Finest
What does the gold eagle mean
that sits above your billowing flag?
Wings wide open.
Vulnerable.
Protected.
What does gold mean to you?
When I’m told my skin shimmers
a reflection of the sun setting.
That wet drops when I swim
look like glitter that falls from heaven
when you pray.
Does your mind change
from eagle to me?
Daughter to my mother.
Sister to my brother.
Alexis Raymond is a poet and creative non-fiction writer. Her work focuses on honoring the minority experience in predominantly white spaces. Growing up in Maine has encouraged her work to reach through Afrofuturism and African mythology to tell a modern story. She is a Stonecoast MFA graduate and an Ashley Bryan Fellow with Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance. Her work can be found in Portland Monthly Magazine, The Elevation Review, So to Speak Journal, Querencia Autumn 2025, The Bookends Review, Hellbender Magazine, and more.
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Banner Art:
Rochelle Blumenfeld, Weathering The Storm I, 2017, WikiArt
