Tag Archives: poetry

no love

21 Feb

i don’t write love poetry anymore

or/poetry about love

my heart and bed are empty

my thoughts a distant memory

of/what love used to be

*

i once wrapped my life & legs around him

watched from the outside as i

lost myself in someone else

who didn’t lose himself in me

it was an out of body experience

& when he touched me, he moved me

mentally

his voice melted me like butter

& in his presence i was weak

when he would walk into a room

it was his eyes that would speak

saying, “Robin, c’mere”

& i would come every time

@ the drop of a dime

thinking if only he were mine

i would find a way to

love him longer/pull him in deeper/make myself sweeter i

often wondered how miraculous it would be

if he used his powers for good

when I would tell my friends about his swag

i was often misunderstood

but there was

healing in his fingers &

peace across his lips &

wonder in the rhythm

when he moved inside my hips

he had that voodoo

to woo, ah, & please

skills that could bring a grown woman to her knees

so imagine me, half grown

but mostly just an aged child

trippin’ off the way he had me

hypnotized/with his eyes

until I could hardly see

he offered me his love & i was a fiend immediately

wanting whatever piece of himself

he was willing to offer me

i wanted to give him a progeny

tattoo his name all over me

until my whole body was numb

i was trippin & his so-called love

left me mute, deaf, & dumb

i was paralyzed by the lull of his words

seducing me like poetry

i begged him to

speak to me

get to me

make me feel things were the way that they used to be

the days when he would stare at me with wonder & surprise

the 26 months before he got between my thighs

when we were friends & not lovers

when we would laugh & not fight

when we would sleep with no covers

& make love until the daylight

but

that was all an illusion

& all his back & forth kisses

brought me was confusion

it all began to make sense/eventually

loving him was becoming detrimental to me

i lost who i was & tried to be who he wanted me to be

& it took hours & years in front of the mirror to finally see

that that just could not be

light skinned & simple minded

i simply can’t be

submissive & open-handed?

paying a “love me” fee?

giving up my body & mind?

baby, that shit is NOT free

so you can stay with that other chick

but she can’t do it like me!

*

i was crossing over emptiness

building bridges with fences

& when he left, i finally came to my senses

seeking bliss from a fool when I should have been seeking princes

i had to put up my defenses

& honesty is a must

that wasn’t love that i felt

that feeling was lust

i don’t write love poetry anymore.

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Holloween, The Mourning-After Poem

28 Oct

At a Halloween house party where I was one of two African American college students, I came to represent available, accessible sex. I was transformed from a sexual subject to object by the rap music and by the anonymous white guy who groped me. The rap music was so loud that I could not hear my soul yelling “No.” I felt hollow. I did nothing that night. I was consumed with rage. This is my mourning-after poem, my way of reconstructing and reclaiming that (body) part of me.


I still feel the echo,

My voice cursing

This drunken 6 ft. something

White man walking out

Of the door

After taking his

Football hand

To grab my ass from my

Rectum upward.

 

I came to the Halloween party with a halter

Spandex denim catsuit

Pretending

To be Foxy funked

Out in an afro wig and retro threads,

A black ghost

When I had my guts gored

By football hands

Thinking I was his

Foxy brown black whore.

 

I saw two blonde-haired twins in their

Pseudo-lesbian stance standing in

For the prostitute. Red-lipped Marilyn

Twisted through the crowd with a bottle of bubbly,

Her breasts bubbling over, her white skin

Blending in

With her white halter dress. I ad-

Dressed my Maryland

No-listen-to-hip-hop roommate why

She tagged her white tank a “wifebeater” without question, I asked her

What it meant

That her closest friends

Coming in as “Heaven” and “Hell” were free to take

Center-stage tag-teaming

Jeanie, Austin Powers and whiteman as himself

In a striptease dance

Which we all consumed,

Looked, laughed and frowned

Because we thought we were somehow not them. I wasn’t

Drunk, like them,

I sipped root beer.

I wasn’t high, like them,

I got off

From humming hip-hop in the corner

Screaming

From two speakers

From a homemade CD

The horror hostess called a “party mix” that I was mixed up in

‘Cause somehow drunken ass football hands

Who felt me up from the asshole up

Thought I was his real-life blaxploitation ho

From them 70s shows done over in them rap videos.

 

I walked in the house

Party with goddamn Madonna

In her ultra-mini, black lace tights, peek-a-boo tank

Surrounded by her

Entire blonde ambition, erotica entourage touring

All around me, but

Drunken ass football hands stationed right on top of me,

Right as

One of the number one raps raped me

In the background, I became (her)

Tone-deaf hearing

Nothing

But the curse

Words I could have said

If my blackness were not drowned

Out by all the white noise,

By drunken ass football hands

Walking up-

Right

Out the door

Hi-fiving his fratboylike buddies bragging

He finally got the opportunity

To fondle the foxy brown black whore

From his virtual

 

Reality.

 

An earlier version of this autoethnographic poem is featured in the journal, Qualitative Inquiry.

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