She asked for it (for Ri)because she asked for it
I gave it to her and after the fists and frenzied blows and the moment my elbow connected with her perfect nose there was no turning back and even with the crack of her teeth and when she finally tasted the gritty sweetness of her own blood I still didn't care I just wrapped my fingers around her hair and pulled her closer what else was I supposed to do? when this was all that I knew when this was all that I was taught maybe YOUR parents never fought- but mine? there was a rumble in the jungle almost every night and my own Mama never had the strength to fight back so this black eye right here? and that bruise to her right thigh was because she asked for it so I gave it to her and even as we were being summoned to take the stage we battled behind the hazy curtain of nightfall and even when- instead of greeting her adoring fans, I introduced her face to my right hand and the streetlamps became the glittery stage lights the telephone poles posing as the silent audience and she asked for it so I gave it to her and I know that all I have to do now is smile pretty sit still in my pressed white ruffled shirt, and all she has to do is pretend it doesn’t hurt each and every time she smiles and even if she conjures up the courage to leave me I will still own the rights to every breath she takes I have tattooed my name with my fists onto her brain her periodic headaches will always make her fall in to reminisce about our first kiss our first holding of hands the first time she molded her slim body to mine the first cries of passion the first accidental bruise and the beautiful piercings only teeth- to- face can make I should be entitled to at least ONE mistake (right?) but she asked for it so I gave it to her and I even long after her, I will still have my pick of the masses shakin’ their assets, waiting for their big chance to sizzle and burn under my grammy like- limelight and you best believe they'll be happy to let me have my way with them giving a little bit of kissing to get a whole lot of trim and I'll belt out a #1 hit and they'll ask for it again and if you know me like I know me I'm gonna give it to them... but only if they ask for it…. And they will. To the young mother with the newborn baby who took an Uber home from the hospitalthey told you good mothers have wealthy husbands three bedroom homes and college savings accounts for their children none of which you had ever had access to so when the pregnancy test turned blue you knew what you had to do your boyfriend’s response to the news was less than joyful offering to pay whatever it costs to make the baby go away but the last thing you needed was a copartner who preferred VIP over PTA (plus, you didn’t want him anyway) so you quickly packed up what little you owned and made a home in a downtown efficiency between the bodega and the pawn shop that sometimes sold beef patties and coco bread and what you thought you lost, you actually found in relearning how to navigate your new world and as your stomach grew, so did you and when your due date finally came your new baby didn’t even have a name and there was no one you wanted to call to witness the miracle you had just created instead, you situated yourself in the backseat of a city Uber with your new baby safely strapped in next to you no balloons or cards or celebratory cigars followed you but you owned something more valuable in this brand new start finally, someone to love you and peace in your heart. |
What the heart remembersbefore careers and partners and babies and responsibilities we were riding six-deep in hatchbacks, speeding to virginia beach seeking soft sand between our bare, brown toes with the sweet smell of saltwater filling our noses before we got grown, we were bold and free our lungs seemed larger, we could openly breathe with no calendar obligations or PTA meetings just wu tang clan, jungle juice and cross colors jeans with see-through phones that lit up when our boyfriends called and Word Up magazine posters tacked up on our bedroom walls and now, even though we’re all high- heeled up with mortgages and student loans and Starbucks in our travel cups from time to time we fall in line to summon up our youth cue up the 2LiveCrew and break it down in our condo living rooms because deep inside we are still very much that beach chasing, neon fat shoelace-ing, Janet Jackson-singing girl the one with the banana clipped head full of hardly-tamed curls who yearns to have just one more day with the beach as our backdrop and a pure heart that still remembers how to play |
Twenty-First MOURNINGIn time I am sure
I will re-learn the sounds of our quiet home. You have not slept here for weeks, I cannot conjure up the courage to call. It was my fault you said, that last evening when we sat on the floor in our living room. I assumed you to be the naive one, didn’t think you had in fact seen it all. Knew everything- the calls, what was said- and instead of the expected outburst of screams broken dishes, torn clothing, knives tearing holes in our rented sofa you quietly wept, for hours. This side of you was new to me as the tears fell, dotting your pressed shirt and tie. Your eyes welled, pleaded with why? Never again I promised, next time I said- I’d think of you first I’d think of us first I knew I was cursed even as a teenager/ wide hipped- wild girl- bred from a long line of other wide hipped-wild girls- who never thought about how those long nights hurt the ones who loved them most. I tried to ignore the burn that settled in my core-at age twenty one I really tried to stay faithful. But it's too late. You are gone. I will find a new love like you, who I will take under my gentle wings and sing my sweet song of deception. But right now, my soul yearns for the slow subtle way you would kiss me good morning. I cannot sing just yet. Not until I can forget how you picked up your suitcase from the floor, slamming the door behind you. Hope ChestIt was her great-great
grandmothers, a mix of oak and pine, wide and deep enough to store a everything a new wife should need, plates, towels, sheets her own mother had taken the time to fill it with things she thought would help her daughter to become the wife and bride she knew she could be, and after she married, she sat in front of the chest, sorting through the towels and dishes, and among the necessities she found a handwritten note which simply said “always have your own money. at least enough to begin again, should you ever find yourself on your own. it was signed “Love, Mary”- the name of her great-great-grandmother. she didn’t think much of it until nine years later when she awakened to find the other side of her bed empty and cold. and she remembered the note, written by a woman who loved her and knew her story before she was even born, making her transition effortless, and so much easier than it was for the many women who came before her... |
Good ManShe is not nearly
as pretty as my mother. My brother and I make faces at her when she is not looking. Her dress is too tight, her hair is teased and dyed; but she makes my father feel young again. (Mama does not know about her.) One day, she and Daddy dropped me and my brother off at the Main Street movie complex, giving us twenty dollars each. They promised us they would return before sundown, and we ate our way through all things good, buttery and sweet. Seven hours later we skipped back out onto the sidewalk to await our father, but he never comes. So we board the last bus of the day, our stomachs aching, not from the pounds of salt, butter, and sugar, but from what from we knew would happen once we all arrived back home. Just as we are stepping off the bus, our father’s shiny white cadillac speeds up beside us. “Daddy!” we both yelled, as if we had not seen him in all of our years. Just then, our mama peeks out the front door, her head a halo of fat, pink rollers. Come inside, she yells, before you catch your death. And we fall in line, her army of misfits, sitting down for a dinner of Daddy’s favorites: Chicken, corn and sweet potatoes. As we take our first bite, Mama asks: “Where on earth have you been for the entire day and night?” And without a second thought my brother and I yell: We saw THREE movies!” Just as our father mumbles: “We went fishing at Panther Creek park.” The room swelled, our words hung in the air, with no one to rescue them. The only sound that dared to remain was fork- scraping- plate, fork- scraping -plate. |
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