by DJ Benhaim
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| Grey represents 10,000 city-owned vacant lots in Chicago. Graphic from ChiBlockBuilder. |
There are over 40,000 vacant lots throughout Chicago. The majority of these lots are found in predominantly Black neighborhoods on the South and West sides, largely due to long-term discrimination and disinvestment from public and private entities. Neighborhoods without investment struggle to maintain housing demand, which can lead to population loss, property demolition and deterioration, and eventually, abundant vacant land. A large concentration of vacant land can have negative effects on the mental and physical health of residents. Vacant land can also depress nearby property values and correlate to increased crime, leading to further disinvestment. —Institute for Housing Studies at DePaul University, April 24, 2025
no one builds barns any more—
only scaffolding, condos,
liquor stores with bulletproof windows
& a prayer room in the back.
wasps had nested up in the rafters
& some uncle worked
where the Walmart stands now.
the soil reddened like scraped knuckles
his father broke with a mule
named Gospel—
worked the rows in prayer
before the yield was taxed out.
|| past is a ledger
but the ink runs. ||
broad side of what?
a body? a billboard?
surfaces now are for selling
what's already been taken.
"used to be Black people out here,"
man in line says,
hocking lone squares for a buck
like that's still a thing.
|| names are dropped
like pins on surveys,
& nobody charts the grief. ||
nana's house = "distressed property"
family land = "redevelopment zone"
heirloom = "liability"
"urban blight" = Black bodies by water
map calls it 'Cal City' now—
we just called it home.
the pecan tree still falls like it used to,
even if they paved around it.
we still claim it's ours
but it's up for sale online—
w/ renderings,
w/ dog parks,
w/ Whole Foods
where the funeral home used to be.
the old deeds hand-written,
passed trembling hand to hand
like hymnals.
now: PDFs, escrow, and computer renderings
of what was.
the city annexed the story.
sold it by the bulk.
a block is 400K now
if you squint
& act like you don't see the runoff,
old promises like mildew
thickening the air.
hands once set in earth
now glide against colored screens—
waiting for Lyft pings,
standing where squash used to grow.
"heritage district" they say—
but only the picket fence remains.
(we had none. never.)
child asks
“wasn’t there a porch here?”
nodding to the concrete slab
where the rocking chair used to squeak.
back when, auntie shell'd peas
in metal bowls on Sunday—
called bingo numbers
like prophecy.
corner now has a mural—
Black woman with afro + fist + sunflowers.
financed by real estate.
our image used
as seasoning.
|| tell me again
who gets pride? ||
story signs on phone poles.
deeds lost to taxes.
a cousin got arrested
and was late for the signing.
a brother was sold low,
"figured they'd take it anyway."
a shoebox full of pictures, water-stained—
someone's arm thrown over a mule,
a baby born of loss
grasping okra
like gold.
we once built fences—
not to keep people out,
but to mark what we meant.
|| crevice in the cement
sweetgrass still grows through. ||
the barn saw baptisms in washtubs,
hog butchering,
first kisses behind feed sacks—
it never forgot the names
whispered in its beams.
barns don't scream
they sag.
they rust like facts—
slow, uncaring
until someone calls it aesthetic
& puts up string lights
for the engagement shoot.
tagged as "roots"
but never allowed to root.
&
here
the wind knows
whose sweat made this space possible—
even if the deeds don't.
DJ Benhaim is an emerging poet from Chicago, IL whose obsession with poetry began at the age of eleven. Additional works can be seen in African Writer Magazine. Connect with him on Facebook @ DJ Benhaim.
