Month: July 2015

Kiss the back of your hands

Wading through the stalks of grass,
I arrived to the place,
Where I swore to never return.
Meeting you where the horizon blurs,
The sun and I,
Would sit for hours,
Eating oranges, grapes and pomegranates,
Waiting for our time to come.
Let us hash out,
Why one decided to live without the other,
Let me give you the fruit I’ve picked.
Come and sit,
Choosing your delicacies,
Ones we’ve waited a long time to eat.
The sun and I,
Sat until royal blue, satin curtains
Brushed across the sky.
My past self,
I am learning what it means to love now.


Peeling back the paint

Looking back on the years, I wondered if this is an experience to wrestle with. I set my childhood shoes at the foot of my bed and stared at them. A few paces back and forth, I looked longingly at them to transport myself to another time. My mind searched for the times my tears fell and my feet ran tirelessly through the dandelions. Quietly, time had snuck me off into the future where I had not protested against my youth. I rubbed my shoulders,  listening to the white noise of the room and thought this is what I am. I am here and I was there, then. I came through the world, meeting the forking of paths. The closet door became a wardrobe entrance to another world. Here, a part of me had made a pillage to solve every mystery. I was the corner of the library where the books beckon you to forget time and live outside of your life.
The milkweeds adorned the fences linking my next door neighbor and I. For I was that too, the child sniffling in the tree branches when it rained. The faint smell of fresh blueberries, from Mexico, were sold from the back of a pickup truck. I was coming home.
How do I gift this? Do I keep it and take it to the ground? Are my memories fond of their replays looping like a CD mixtape.
At the edge of my bed, I looked at my childhood shoes and wondered what has come out of all of this. I am peeling back my layers one by one without withering.

**rambling. I will do something with this…


With my dreams plentiful,
Like sparkling jewels,
I call you out of the darkness.
With silence slicing through air,
Over and over again,
With our dull knives,
I come to taunt fate,
For it is you that must return.
Fly home,
Flapping your wings wildly,
Beat the sky at its own game,
Keeping the light where it shines now.
Come out of the darkness,
Flailing like a feather,
Riding each curvature of the wind.
If time should shake us repeatedly
Saying the choice is not ours,
I want to train the arches of my feet
To stay firm for years and years,
Until we stop running.
Claim it,
This flickering flame causing shadows to rise,
Taking with it,
For darkness to follow us,
On foot,
In pursuit.

I cannot let go.
Come out of the darkness,
Before our dreams wisp into smoke.

The Repercussions of Loving Too Deep

The Repercussions of Loving Too Deep
By Aginetta Mulima.


Writing is my escape.  My first published book ‘Whose to Say: Confessions of Teenagers’ contains a collection of poems I had written from Middle School to my Junior year in high school. It was one of the rare occasions in my life, where I would allow others to pull up a chair to examine who I was on the inside. The poems addressed the  shaky ground from childhood to adolescence in writing.
‘The Repercussions of Loving Too Deep’  however became the turning point, the world and its contents were still shaky but life had changed.
In this memoir (embodying poetry and fiction), love is the topic. It is one where I discuss platonic, romantic and familial love. It welcomes the the self-discovery process on how we love ourselves and the people around us. ‘Repercussions’ notes how much of the past we rely on to keep us strong.

This book contains a manuscript I had kept under wraps out of fear and denial.
However, DD Wright, an editor lended a helping hand to go through the text and encouraged me to share what I had to say. In fact, what I had to say was not only necessary but important for myself.

I encourage you to buy it on Amazon, CreateSpace and Kindle. Also, please share your thoughts/ reviews regarding it. Spread the word also!

It is available for sale here:

Author’s note:
DD Wright is available as an editor and a wonderful resource for writers at @poetry2life on Instagram. Also, her website is Her rates are affordable for budding authors of all backgrounds. She is an engaged teacher and poet located in New York.
Her work: Poetry2Life: Youth. Struggle.Love

When the water runs out

When the water runs out,
Barely a drip from the tap,
I will not be pushed into the deserts.

When the dry taste in my mouth has settled,
Like the last days of Summer,
I will not reminisce the water fountains,

When the chalk chatters on the board,
Some students bored,
Regurgitating the same names,
Only noted to warn us,
That our power to fight back can be erased,
I will not think of historical dates.

When the pen runs free,
Quarreling with its writer,
And audience,
I will sit, a pupil sliding a note to my friend,
With my foot.

When the streetlights glow,
A dim overcast on the parked cars,
I’ll jump over fences,
Asking who robbed my heart,
And wished it so.

When the words aren’t quite right,
And a swift jab to the stomach,
A stomp on the hand,
Could say it all…
I will not say that our whole lives could have been different.

When the water runs out,
My tongue will salivate for freedom.
One by one,
The bored children will know.
And the blackboards,
Will be stark and blank.
That, history drove me to the desert,
Against my wish,
The berating sun shone and I did squint,
That this has happened before,
But somehow we all want more.

When the water runs out…
Folks will do what they must to live.

Oh, what must I wish for

I want our love to be enduring.
Hand against cheek,
Let me remain alluring,
Kiss me with words,
Letting them trace against my skin.
If my heart can stay forgiving,
Find solace in what we have built.
I want this love to challenge time,
Cause forever to feel not long enough
To know you,
Cause winds to carry seeds where they are needed most.
I want my love for you to be vast,
Let it allow you to course through fear,
And come out triumphant.
Let our hands be touch upon touch,
For times such as these.
Let love,
Be a lamp,
Its warm glow,
Welcoming shadows,
From years past.
Let our despair,
Teach us survival,
Clutching what we know,
And thrusting courageously where we don’t.
Hand upon cheek,
Make love,
Make our love reach inside of ourselves,
And intertwine.

I want our love enduring.

The Garden Tilled By Those Who Have Left Us

As a child, I grew in brief sprouts of mobility. Although I had passed the stages of suckling for a way of comfort, fear nursed me through the rest of my years. How time tormented me when I laughed too loudly and hugged at my ribs. How it sat quietly in the back of the church humming a low, soft tune reminding me one day I must grow older. One day I’ll have to muster up strength for those who scurry under me, whether they are children or birds settling in what is the now and present.

At the loneliest hour, my feet aggressively kicked in my sleep, running away from things that cannot be touched but can touch you. Death, loneliness and uncertainty; all of their names I have worn fastened to my breast unsure of their lumps. I threw the covers off of my body and my eyelids fluttered open hoping to see something not of this world but who knew far too much of it to be foreign.

I came alongside the others growing fast and untamed. I had shouting matches with those who could teach me when I decided I would be taught. Their tries tired of my wickedness and slowness to forgive, yet they reached for me like the sweetest slice of fruit. As a child, I learned quickly that I must fold myself in half and once again to live. In order to survive, we must learn to grow and retract when we have stopped sucking for warm milk. In order to survive, we must place our hands on sister and brother so-and-so’s back during the altar call prayer and bow our heads. In order to grow out of the shanties, shacks, slums and the ghettos we must heat the skillet before we pour the cornbread batter in.

How time had left us awestruck that our years have paraded right in front of us. We bent down to cup with our hands some of the running water out of the faucet to drink. Its tap taste had made no difference then, we had no thirst for filtration. Our souls had been purified as we waded through the baptismal pools or closed our eyes shut when the minister sprinkled water on our face. I thought too that I had been purified to make it another day learning from yesterdays. I thought too that individuals who could recount their youth as if it had cheated them at cards would speak. Their words firm but doughy, kneaded in wisdom retelling the sorrows and the sunshine glean.

Time did not heal what was mine but it made me hold it closer afraid to lose it. I felt my skin. I thought of trekking back home hoping to make it there before the door closes. I’d hope to set my foot in that familiar house before I am quickly snatched out of it only clutching my memories when I go…when I go to bloom like seeds repainting the earth.