Forever now I’ve been peach skin on baby breath,
drowning in cement.
Too polite to evolve.
Too Brazilian weave on cashmere to bite the intentions
of cockroaches in raincoats who follow me.
And 90 pound, 6 foot, blue eye expectations that fall on me.
And a country that spits and steps over me.

The boy who tried to push me off a bridge said
he grew up on piss-covered concrete and pat downs.
So he knows how to turn cotton into granite.
I said I grew up beside green lawns
and friendly white privilege.
So I know how to turn insanity into language.
He laughed at me as if I hadn’t meant it.

I never learned how to break sheep into wolves.
But I know manifestation is born on my tongue.
I know the lady who sat in sorrow’s kitchen,
licking out all the pots,
was talking to me when she said
“Be silent about your pain, and
they’ll kill you and say you enjoyed it.”

Make noise, the kind that can’t
be persuaded into music.
And sold for profit.
Soul for profit.

Gabrielle Randall’s poem, “Angel’s Trumpet,” won first prize in the Fourth Annual School of Visual Arts Writing Program Contest. Gabrielle also won second prize for her short script, “Fire Mouth.” Gabrielle is in her second year at the Film program at SVA. She hails from Colombia, Maryland. Gabrielle has this to say about her work: “I tend to create very personal, character-intensive stories that are minimal in action and plot. One of my writing teachers at SVA once told me, ‘Write a story that can only come from you,’ and I take that very seriously.”