Descent from your silver vein old weaver, Anansi.
From the lamplight, convert me to believer, Anansi.
The Women taught me to fear you.
Said you’d fetter my skin with hard burrows and fever, Anansi.
But I am relearning the depths of my obedience.
Time withers me and I’ve become a griever, Anansi.
My melanin has meaning beyond my self.
White girl once told me a nigger’s body belongs to the cleaver, Anansi.
I am woven to the bullet, the hashtag, the resistant fist.
When I walk the street, who sees you in me, deceiver Anansi?
Yesterday, you would have been a stain between my notebooks.
Today, you are preacher, I receiver, Anansi.
Let the Trickster God be this Kristen’s new religion.
Teach her defiance, feed her resilience, and sweetly deceive her, Anansi.
Fall, 2017 Issue