poetry by angel page smigielski

a lake michigan prayer

heavenly mother forgive me, for i have
forgotten to take the chicken out the freezer.
i’m still in love with the girl you told me was
no good. her skin is too plush
with her father’s insecurities,
she is impossible to hold by the likes of me.
i’m at the lake again. the waves bleed
into my palms & we hold hands for a moment.

mother God, her name ignites my eardrums.
you were always right but i hated your tone. i
plead for death’s presence
again. you ever been so sad that your
heart throbs out of place? racks itself
around the body like the pinball machine
on that drunken night i fell in love.

momma, i’m coming undone
in chunks—every epiphany floating
away in the form of sorrow song.

i laid out all the things that i can be before her.
in alphabetical order to please the virgo
in her. i laid like stone in her cheeks,
she chose to choke me.

ma, if you listen—you’ll hear the lake sing.
She sings me marvin gaye with a smirk.
She blends in so well against my aggravated tears.

market days

i pledge allegiance to the disco ball at pennywhistle.
she does not spin or glisten but she is sturdy.
keeps me steady while i brace bare earth i call tequila.
every heart around me swaying to house, we look to her honor.
just as quickly as she’s there, she is memory now when
lover whisks me away to rooftops, places the view in the life line of my hand. yearn
for the funnel cake from market days that was soft in the middle.

during the 2020 chicago riots, i kept a picture of my little brother in my pocket

just in case i died. i wanted the people who found my body to know it was so the angel in my pocket could live. but a black face can’t just die anymore. death comes with a begging of sorts, a crushing of sorts, an unlawful release of sorts. black death never comes when it’s ready, & demands to nest on the shoulders of black mothers. when we die, black women join hands, scream to a God who watches burning Targets from Heaven. black women must sob in order for our graves to be watered. without them, how would we ever get our flowers?