2 Poems by Khalisa Rae

Khalisa Rae is a poet and journalist in Durham, NC, and author of Real Girls Have Real Problems chapbook. Her poetry can be seen in Crab Fat, Damaged Goods, Hellebore, Terse, Sundog Lit, PANK, Tishman Review, Occulum, the Obsidian, among others. She is the winner of the Bright Wings Poetry contest, the Furious Flower Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Prize, the White Stag Publishing Contest, among others. Currently, she serves as Managing Equity Editor at Carve Magazine and Writing Center Director at Shaw University. Her debut collections, Ghost in a Black Girls Throat are forthcoming from Red Hen Press in April 2021 and White Stag Publishing Summer '21 ​

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Belly-Full of Gospel


Each morning my grandma rises to find her Bible
still breathing, belting her favorite aria. A lion,
a well, a sacrifice. Crack-of-dawn, coffee-stained,
scrolls making music at 6am. Each page turn a chord
she knows better than hot water cornbread and collard
greens. Wailing Blessed Assurance, What a Friend to crackling
bacon– all a belly-full of gospel summoning spirit to be there
in the midst. Her back buckle and hand wave awakening
a holy ghost- Bash-sha- Shadrach, Meshach- tongue-speaking
spells cast out the demons haunting this old house. “While
I’m on this tedious journey”— a sovereign song soothing her
aching, calligraphed hands. Walk with Me, she asks,
inviting Him in the room. What a meditation, a ritual
to welcome Holy into a place held together by broken bread.
A sacred invitation to dine with her and the browning
hash. Nothing but the Blood and sunrise slicing sound--
stirring a tent revival lasting ‘til nightfall across
her wobbling kitchen table.






Ode to Uncommon Things
                                    for Pablo


If this world has taught me anything,
it has taught me we are obsessed

with naming, with calling a Ren a
Ren, with deciding the weeping willow

was heavy with grief, with echoing
the words Nightjar and picturing

nocturnal hawk. Maybe it's the god-like
power of it all, the villain of conjuring

titles, calling a thing broken and watching
it fall, then calling it chosen–phoenix,

and watching it rise. Who are we
to be cataloged and filed?

All of us just common things
waiting to be named uncommon,

waiting to go from bird to Nightingale,
from pigeon to white-wing, crest-backed

Long-tailed widow. The sonnet we hoped
would be written for our raised backs

and color stripes— unwritten.
Instead, we watched while handkerchief

and pitch pipe got 83. Mementos
to things less miracle than we. Time

spent crafting sestinas to penny loafer,
and pocket watch.

But we are not listed--
we, the uncommon, silvery tokens.