SWEET SIXTEEN

By Farah Lawal Harris, 2024

My trauma think she grown, but she ain’t.

Sweet sixteen she’ll be this year—

a child who is heard, but not seen

she whispers through grinded teeth and creaky knees,

missed alarms, stiff neck, and shallow breath.

She think she grown,

tryna emancipate herself as if

this home hasn’t fed her well,

as if I built this personal hell

and she just live here.

Uh-uh, dear,

you don’t even know what it takes

to be on your own.

You don’t even know who you is.

You don’t even know—

I don’t even know—

I don’t even know what to do

now that my trauma has grown.

She don’t talk to me no more.

At first, I thought her attitude was cute.

She’d stew, then cling to me like a blanket of safety.

I, the mother, would comfort and rock her.

Today, she is the prodigal daughter

with no childhood home to return to.

My trauma is really grown—

I signed those emancipation papers bout two years ago.

I love her from a distance.

There’s no room for her in this home.

I dressed my empty nest

with saged corners and bay leaves—

banished the negative energy

and replaced it with possibility.