Whine & Die
by Lasha D. Goodwin
My hair is never down,
even when I let it.
Though my mind is in the clouds,
voguing, as my afro bobs
to my favorite tune,
I remain vigilant.
Graciously, I gait
from place
to place
fragrant confidence
wafting in my trail,
taking up space.
My idiolect captivates you,
though I’ll admit—
it’s curated.
I’ve cracked the code,
Switching
Cause I ain’t finna be
misunderstood.
You heard me?
Good.
The bronze of my skin is a gift
from Mother Nature,
but I saw it sitting on a shelf
for sale.
At the dinner table, Mommy said
being yourself is a battle for the ages.
She armored me with love
and validation.
Still,
I am battered.
A Black Girl isn’t beloved
beyond her mother’s dining room.
I lose myself searching for me
in all the right tables.
I trade my worth for a living.
Sacrifice myself
and call it giving.
I sit at inherited tables
with fiends claiming the same hunger.
They feast on me.
But I don’t want to be consumed.
I felt the most satisfied sitting
at my mother’s table,
where she fed me
courage and confidence.
I never considered I’d be famished
at my own table,
where I am dished
defamation.
Now I conform—
no, contort
into a character that feasts
on platitudes served
from a greasy white box.
It’s tepid.
Yet I am expected to serve up
the best when this world expects
everything
and nothing
of me at all.
So no,
my hair,
though she reaches for the clouds,
is never down
because my guard
is always up.
I stand tall,
so when you knock me down,
my magnitude will resound
as I hit the ground.
I speak so I am understood—
never incompetent to the white man,
not siditty to your home girl.
My skin is too dark
to be beautiful
until it is a beauty standard
for an ivory corpse.
Mommy’s dinner table
fed my belief
that I am everything
and I am full.
With my head held skyward,
assurance in my stride,
clarity in my tone,
luminance in my complexion—
you’d never know
I am starving.
Bonus audio of Lasha reading her poem…
About the author:
Lasha D. Goodwin is a poet whose work explores lineage, memory, and the quiet inheritances that shape who we become. Poetry has drawn on her heart since age eight, when she first recognized that language can paint intricate images. That early instinct matured into a practice rooted in reflection and storytelling. Her writing often centers on themes of home, ancestry, and continuity, and she’s particularly interested in the ways Black identity, womanhood, and generational resilience intersect to create both burden and possibility.