Gentrified West Philly

I submitted poetry to Veronica’s MSM Zine, and luckily, not only to did one get accepted, but she even requested that I read another that didn’t get published into the zine because of space limitations, but that she felt should still be heard! I couldn’t be more honored. Two out of three of the poems that I submitted were accepted, and the one that she wanted me to read was a poem that I wrote that was inspired by the themes of the exhibition. I may go back and add and omit from it, but the untitled poem reads as followed:

Summer 2005

in the hottest part of West Philly

the sidewalk’s so hot

it melted the skin off our knees when we

fell on them

we were younger

making everyone cousins or lovers,

wearing floral socks and denim skorts

spreading crooked, missing toothed smiles,

imperfect and transparent,

a happiness that lets you see inside of it.

the air,

warm and embracing

and belonging to us,

we’d roam the entire neighborhood

looking for an adventure.

the cracks and dents in the sidewalk would take

us to the rec center on Christian St.,

Play Cousin Jay would give us free Hugs and Lil Romeo Chips,

And most times,

the park smelled like weed, grass, and sugar that’s

been burnt by the sun,

drips of blueberry water ice stained

onto the bottom of a slide or a puddle of it beneath a swing set.

Now we’re taller and clumsier,

and we’ve learned to smile purposefully.

The air smells like paint and rose pedals,

that’s if it’s not spring and if all the new gardens and

Cherry Blossoms hasn’t stopped us from

breathing through our noses.

It’s as if the air feels different.

Maybe wants to kill us now.

Vaguely, this seems to be a sort of heaven.

We’re dead and invisible,

like ghosts who didn’t make it into paradise.

There’s new restaurants and boutiques

with items the price of gold,

and the gates here are green and watermarked

with gods faces that look down at us from the tips of

the spikes at the top of it.

The pavement is smooth and almost white like clouds,

It’s cold and hits us for falling on it.

There aren’t anymore cracks in it,

so sometimes,

we walk the whole city

looking for home.

(Side Note: I say this on almost every platform that I post my creative writing on: All of my work is protected.I love my work so much that I am willing to fight for it legally. Please do not steal my poem, ideas, words, or phrases. I say this humbly. Thank you.)