She lie on the bed; belly down and naked from head to toe. An ear to the mattress. And an ear to the wind from an open window. Her backside adorned with earned stripes – lightening strikes, winding Redwood roots, umbilical cords etched to her hips. And to his eyes. He dared not guess if the sun was setting or rising. But he knew…that it’s rays were finally learning how to illuminate themselves. Continue reading Rest and Shine
You can not love yourself
And apologize for who you are
True love stands up in the guts
Of wrong and right
Allure and repugnance
Flawed and flawless
Blessed and cursed
Love forces them, to not kiss and make-up,
But fuck each other…
Just when I thought he couldn’t go any lower, his vengeance out-dreamt me. And he got gutter… I don’t know why I was so surprised. It should have been obvious… The way he ate my pussy, made me think my insides were sugar roads leading to oil wells of eternal life – mines of gold. Who could stop digging?
Do not be afraid to come undone. All of your ancestors await you at your dawn. Even the ones who didn’t wish to be there. Each cell. Waiting for you to open. To fall. To become raw… So that you may feel. Supported. My love… You are so supported. Your undoing is your salvation. There’s a roof made of rain and sunshine. Floors of solid gold. The walls never strangle. Doors are never closed. Some remove their shoes at the threshold. But never mind them… You! You must come completely. Undone. Of you… They require more – a more clothed in nothing. Nothing. At all. Hang your fear on shoulders that tote wings. Lay your burdens in laps likened to crimson tides. Rest your bloodied soles on lashed and leathered backs that have mended themselves. Spread your aching body across the Atlantic. They have been waiting to make a bridge. Out of you. Come. And be made. Whole.
Mama says, “When you are really tired, you won’t have to tell anyone.
You will stop proclaiming it from mountaintops,
or rallying around your tiredness in the village square.
Naw, baby! When you are really tired…in all your blackness
and sexiness and woman-ness, the world will feel it – a guttural
cry from it’s core will rise up! All words coming together until there are none.
(Have you ever heard a woman’s holler
when the news hits her lactating breasts that there will be no child to feed?
Lost to the auction block or while clawing its way through the vaginal canal?)
It is a sound that you can hear even in your sleep –
a sound that tattoos itself onto windpipes.
The essence of you as a Black. Woman. with the gall to be tired will halt
the earth on its axis. And everyone…everyone will hold their breath if only
for a moment. And they will know. So, naw baby…you ain’t tired just yet.
The earth is still spinning.
And you are still talking.”
He thought I’d fail at the monologue. Thought I’d clam up, forget words. Thought perhaps I’d run off the stage, humiliated before even stating the first line. He forgot. That back in the day, when the two of us sang duets complete with two-part harmonies and eight extremities that kept the same rhythmic time… I was composer of both parts. Of all parts. Mine and his. And when he failed to show or was too late to even attempt to appease the crowd, first I was a little panicky. Then resentful. And finally inspired. My gift and my curse – to do the work of two with (somewhat apparent) ease. So, it was I who stopped the show. First, to make room for grace… Maybe he was just late? Then to make room for a standing ovation… In his absence. What made him think…hope I would fail at the monologue? They’re just duets between you and and an absent someone. And…well…shit…after all, practice makes perfect. Practice. Had plenty of that! One day. I pray. To be free enough to live my own definition of free. Free enough. To depend on a true duet. But for now, the grace period has come and gone. The show must go on. Mano-a-Monologue.