Dara Kalima

Dara Kalima, also known as The Community Poet, is a Bronxite who started writing at 9, dedicated herself to the craft at 16, and locked into her voice at 25. She holds both a BA and MA in theater. She is the founder of Black Authors Collaborative and serves as Vice President of Poetix University, an international home for all poets. Kalima has performed on stages across New York and made her international debut in 2018, when performing in Scotland. She is influenced by the poetry of Langston Hughes, Maya Angelou, Sonia Sanchez and Staceyann Chin and often makes nods to these greats in her own writing. Kalima explores the concepts of love, equity, and healing all through lived experiences and personal observations. She has authored four books, Black Man, Black Woman, Black Child (2015), Casualty of Love (2017), Two X Chromosomes with an Extra Shot of Melanin (2019) and Still Laughin’ (2021). Connect with her at www.darakalima.com and on Instagram at DaraKalima.

COMPLAINTS FILED OR WHY I LOVE THE BRONX

We sat in front of her building

during the last days of summer

discussing how what was luxurious

has gone to shit.

Structure’s crumbling.

Cars are vandalized.

And the walkway’s unsafe!

We were once children with no cares,

now we sound like ignored parents.

The rent’s spiking,

there’s less bang for bucks

and management ain’t managing.

I give her a warm hug and

the assembly person's info then

hop in the cab to my side of our borough.

Though it nighttime, myopic eyes strain to absorb

the parts not seen in years

There’s the movie theater I was forgotten at…

The courthouse I served at…

And Twin Donuts should be up on my left...

I spy a man, with his flesh-toned pants

and fuzzy out-of-season boots

as he yelled car-window penetrating rants...

Before the changing light releases us,

he bends, pulling up

what I now realize is

his under and over pants

while the guards chase him off

for showing his junk.

I smile,

he was just airing his grievances

like we had been.

My cab enters an underpass,

and more of my borough passes by

IT’S SUCH A GREAT FEELING

As he laid on me,

full weight,

I lost all breath

and debated

letting him know or

letting go.

There’s worse ways to go

than under his love,

this love I’ve

never known

the likes of.

If this was where death met me,

I’d happily take his hand,

but death would not

look like the man on me who

was just in me who

gave me moments of bliss,

moments of

la

petite

mort.

While he laid on me

and

as I

contemplated

letting him

have my last,

I whispered,

“You took my breath away,

might you

lend me some of yours?”