Deonte Osayande" />
  • ABOUT
  • PRINT
  • PRAISE
  • SUBSCRIBE
  • OPENINGS
  • SUBMISSIONS
  • CONTACT
The Missing Slate - For the discerning reader
  • HOME
  • Magazine
  • In This Issue
  • Literature
    • Billy Luck
      Billy Luck
    • To the Depths
      To the Depths
    • Dearly Departed
      Dearly Departed
    • Fiction
    • Poetry
  • Arts AND Culture
    • Tramontane
      Tramontane
    • Blade Runner 2049
      Blade Runner 2049
    • Loving Vincent
      Loving Vincent
    • The Critics
      • FILM
      • BOOKS
      • TELEVISION
    • SPOTLIGHT
    • SPECIAL FEATURES
  • ESSAYS
    • A SHEvolution is Coming in Saudi Arabia
      A SHEvolution is Coming in Saudi Arabia
    • Paxi: A New Business Empowering Women in Pakistan
      Paxi: A New Business Empowering Women in Pakistan
    • Nature and Self
      Nature and Self
    • ARTICLES
    • COMMENTARY
    • Narrative Nonfiction
  • CONTESTS
    • Pushcart Prize 2017 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2017 Nominations
    • Pushcart Prize 2016 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2016 Nominations
    • Pushcart Prize 2015 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2015 Nominations
    • PUSHCART 2013
    • PUSHCART 2014
Literature, PoetryJuly 27, 2016

Tornadoes

At the Edge IV

At the Edge IV by Scharjeel Sarfaraz. Image courtesy of ArtChowk Gallery.

In Tupelo Mississippi
my fiancee and I see
three confederate flags. Water

of course is wet. A few weeks
prior to this trip she embraces me,
crying, asking me not to leave
the house. I do not oblige her. Water

after all is still wet. A few weeks prior
to this trip another black man
lays there, dead, shot in the street
by the police. And another. And
another. I have grown numb to it

all at this point. We are passing
through Indiana on the way back
and there is a tornado touching down.
I feel safer, less on edge. Know the cop

cars aren’t gonna come for us now. I wish
every day was a tornado watch. Water is still wet

in this equation and America is still
America. Which is to say that if America,
just as racist as it has ever been,
elects a bigot in the fall I won’t be

surprised in the slightest. This week
while driving for Uber I picked up
three cops who bragged about dating
underaged women and yet another
black man was shot in the street. Water is wet

and I am flooded with emotion. Every week
I am reminded of how my presence isn’t wanted
in my own home country and I have to swallow
that truth like a glass of water. I gulp it down

and nearly suffocate every time. I wish every week
there were tornadoes touching down, hurling
squad cars left and right just so we could feel safer
for once. I wish there were storms brewing for all

the racists present and we could just speed on
through it, just fast forward to the future
where this country isn’t bigoted. But that tomorrow

never comes. Water is still wet. America is still
America. There will still be people who view

my life as threat before gunmen, or cops. The police
will still function for the sole purpose of hunting
us black people. In Tupelo Mississippi, we celebrated
a wedding, despite it all. We found joy despite it all,

and in Memphis Tennessee me and my sister reunited. We
celebrated this reunion despite it all. We will celebrate
despite it all because they can’t take our joy from us

while we still have it. Water may be wet but the music
stays fine enough to dance to and we gonna keep on dancing
until the rug is cut and our feet are falling off our ankles.

~ Deonte Osayande

Deonte Osayande is a former track and field sprinter turned writer from Detroit, Michigan. He writes nonfiction essays and his poems have been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology, a Pushcart Prize and published in numerous publications. He has represented Detroit at multiple National Poetry Slam competitions. He’s currently a professor of English at Wayne County Community College, and teaching youth through the Inside Out Detroit Literary Arts Program.

Tags

Deonte OsayandePoem of the WeekpoetryScharjeel Sarfaraz

Share on

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Pinterest
  • Google +
  • LinkedIn
  • Email
Previous articleGreen Love & Positive Blood
Next articleStark White

You may also like

Billy Luck

To the Depths

Dearly Departed

More Stories

We Found the Song

“The petals fall./ One by one/ They fall from the kapok/ Over the afternoon’s skin…” By Conceição Lima, translated from Portuguese by David Shook.

Back to top
One last love letter...

April 24, 2021

It has taken us some time and patience to come to this decision. TMS would not have seen the success that it did without our readers and the tireless team that ran the magazine for the better part of eight years.

But… all good things must come to an end, especially when we look at the ever-expanding art and literary landscape in Pakistan, the country of the magazine’s birth.

We are amazed and proud of what the next generation of creators are working with, the themes they are featuring, and their inclusivity in the diversity of voices they are publishing. When TMS began, this was the world we envisioned…

Though the magazine has closed and our submissions shuttered, this website will remain open for the foreseeable future as an archive of the great work we published and the astounding collection of diverse voices we were privileged to feature.

If, however, someone is interested in picking up the baton, please email Maryam Piracha, the editor, at maryamp@themissingslate.com.

Farewell, fam! It’s been quite a ride.

Read previous post:
Green Love & Positive Blood

"your roots are still penetrating the earth./You grab my hand knowing blood/stole our spring..." Weekend poem, by Charles McGregor.

Close