Heirlooms

fur coats–thick-scented of cedar from spending the summer
season in the basement closet–brushing against ankles.
silk pressed hair with curls at the end from rollers–never heat.
church hats with lace and bows and veils and and and.

missing or gold tooth in the corner of the smile.

crystal dishes filled with unwrapped candies
that stick together in humidity.

plastic covered couches–for preservation.
dining rooms with plush white carpet only for holidays.

laughs that wheeze at the end. voices that carry
the party down the street to join the neighbors

on their front porches, congregating in the heart of Detroit–
or at least the heart of our homes. Porch lights and aluminum
chairs that slump under too much weight coming at it too fast.

we are all too much weight–

a bloodline of hips a block wide.
thighs sturdy. lips plump. legs that limp
for the first few steps after sitting too long.

pineapple upside down cake. coconut cake. strawberry
shortcake handmade never store bought. fresh berries. fresh
whipped cream. fresh coat of nail polish on the fingers that dip
into the start of memories that linger like the slam of the screen door

Talicha J. is a Black queer poet, teaching artist, and Pushcart Prize nominee. She curates workshops and virtual writing retreats that foster growth and connection. Her work appears in several literary journals, and her chapbook, Taking Back the Body, was released in 2024.