Sky Woman

There was a Black woman in the sky. I found her tumbling across the horizon, soul split into two dimensions, head first into the sun. The world seemed unbothered by her slip into nothingness, as though her flesh, paled by moonlight, depressed into the clouds had been a disintegration long awaited. The only ones who seemed to notice the Sky woman’s descent were the women colored midnight, kenyan soil, and carmel rivers with histories and bodies unaligned.They discussed the way her breasts, collapsed on either side of her chest, tore through the wind. The way you could hear the faint appearance of screams silenced by looming hurricanes out on the sea. Watched as her face morphed into their own and prayed for a quick death. One day, as Sky Woman bled over Africa, my mother told me of a dream sent to her by my grandmother. She marked her palms with blood of Sky woman’s menstruation and said that the ancestors were seeking rage. A Black woman was falling across the sky and all we could do was watch.