Little one, please wait for the rain.
I hear your quiet words at dusk’s end,
where the sky is the only one listening
to the girl with midnight skin,
who never learned to stand.
You don’t know the strength
that runs through your effervescent veins,
that surviving is in, is, your blood
and the world tries to tell you
black girls aren’t good enough.
But little one, please wait for the rain
because I see the sunlight
in your melanin even when the moon
steals it away.
You hold the space around you
the way darkness holds galaxies
and I promise you,
you are no less lovely.
Little black girl, I am not blind
to the pooling in your eyes,
but I need you to feel the heartbeat
of kings and queens in the ebb of the Atlantic.
A storm away, the saccharine scent of
Victory waits to breathe
into the rise of an arid day,
so, please wait for the rain.
*Petrichor: A pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather.
Image by Bianka Bell
By Skylar Wilson