Poetry
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[From The Damaged Good: Poems Around Love]
JOHN
green eyes
every young
project girl
dreamed
of them
like petting
from him
as gentle
they caressed
their own
nipples
craving
just one
trembling
moment
in his
gaze
but
he
bent my
knees
held himself
stiffly
brushed
my lips
had me
stare
at his sex
while the
emerald
of those
eyes
gaped
at the
moon.
THE RACIAL DIVIDE
you are fucking me
with white skin
unrelenting
cudgel
delirious with fever
I am heaving ardor
my stilt bed of politics
aches with straining
I am blisters rupturing
closed cells opening
heart
inside
LESSONS
Those two cats of his
passing the night
between my calves
along the backs
of my inner thighs
pressing the comforter tight
against my narrow legs
their weight binding me
to the yielding
of his soft mattress
my breathing made shallow
less by the memory
of his pushing
against my spine
as by the presence of them
inhabiting the room
spilling my every drink of air
investing even his skin
like dust settling there
on his rising chest
misting slender shoulders
tiny seeds sown
in the till of his earth
on the moist
of my ardent affections.
Those two cats of his
have learned spells
I yearn still to know
to make myself
the very atmosphere he breathes
scent of his skin
texture of his clothes
to keep him
always heading home
to feed me
a faithful master
to make his bed
each of its four corners
my own
ROLE PLAY
Desire knows
that the mind
can be its enemy
Conditioned by repetition
latitude may be lost
like memory
Frightened
by puckered things
Emasculated
Some bottoms
terrify easily
like virgin braggarts
Come before invitations
Lose rigidity
after first kiss
Such minds flee
even before the skin
senses any danger
THE NET
on the net
my computer becomes
a back room, dark
in a club
speakers, subwoofers
push classic R&B
like ecstacy, crystal meth
dazzled by descriptions
enticed by penises
frozen humongous
in squares of light
untroubled by lies
typing responses
wondering where
my behind will end
cheeks up?
spread-eagled?
a raw wound basking?
seeping impetuousness?
oozing regret?
on the net
binary, brazen
hours seated
at my crystal window
trying to sate hunger
across masculine
signals
search engining
fucks
somewhere
lost
digital
night
The Absence of Light
We will need to find a new place for it
In the thin of things that night has left us
You are melted ice in my slender hands
I cannot hold you for the godforsaken spaces
Between my fingers, the drumbeat of our flight
We trample daffodils beneath the hooves of this cruising
Never harkening even to the scent of pine enveloping our silence
I would give breath to my hunger for holding you
But words are silver bullets here, like charring light
We are afraid of letting go of our many demons
Putting down the broken-legged horses of our plight
Tell me to what new hush we will go like failed murderers
I would follow you into any darkness or thicket
Open myself to you in any dank blight.
THE PRIZE
Breaths converging
under faint lights
like stars on water
Fantasies of ark-ish love float
atop shimmers of sweat
waterfalling at his sides
He knows
the slow tilting of head
cavern of mouth
swallowing hours
like shots of gin
in a bar
on a street called
darkness
Twists nipples
delicately
in the blush
of rising members
his own
those fragrant others
Calls feeling into being
Feigns real affection
Pretends to glow
like morning sunshine
in the pitch of storms
Waits as daybreak
a muffled radiance
complaining quiet
behind cloud
He looks up
into the moat
of other men’s eyes
Knows a castle sits
beyond the brush
of their testicles
Hidden somewhere
above voices like theirs
that do not speak
nor utter sound enough
even to lie
Like life
he remains patient
in these shadows
Beneath calloused hands
Inside the moist warm shelter
and grasp of ass
He ponders as a panel
of contestants
the answers he will give
to the true love
he swears he desires
Pulsates
like a child of fireflies
eager for some ultimate
prize.
[From Lyric: Poems Along A Broken Road]
EXILE
In this land
where my parents have taken me
I am close to nothing
except the Earth.
Tasting the wind
to gather some scent of my history,
the breeze that blows
the rain that falls here
is bitter and cold
like them—
those others from whom the word
“coconut” has become an insult
“ackee,” the sound one makes
when one spits.
I ache to hear stories
from my mother
of tamarind falling from the sky
“I and I” dripping from Rasta men’s lips
fruit sold from Higgler thighs.
Yet in all these years
she has told me nothing
Jamaica died in me
in her silence.
The sun set on the island
when she left.
My mother refuses to let it re-arise.
At other times
I’ve hoped to see roots
grow from my father’s mouth
our family branch from his eyes
to hear of Kumina rituals working
and duppies unwilling
to cross to the other side.
Yet he never offered me
even my grandmother’s name
a photo of his wedding
or a hint of Westmoreland
or my family’s greater size.
What have I done to deserve this?
They offer me breadfruit when I cry.
Exile mars their faces as they eat.
They shovel forkfuls of rundown
as I make to ask them why.
I am lost in this land
where my parents have brought me.
THE TWISTED MIRROR
He is fleshy.
Every ounce of him
Involved in his demise.
Stealth does not become him.
He cannot sneak
Into another man’s attraction here,
Nor turn a corner quickly
In hopes of evading his size.
He moves more slowly
As the moths flicker past him.
Rejection harms,
Weighs him further.
Sweat drips from his beard,
Coats his inner thighs.
Still, he remains.
Stays because to leave untouched
Is to fail, to lose more
In more ways than he can describe.
He kneels in the comfort of shadow.
Gives up the benefit of his eyes.
Waits—begging silently.
Forgets his own misshapen needs.
He must touch flesh to survive.
They come,
Finding relief between the rows of his teeth,
A salve for their abrasions,
A urinal for this moment in their lives.
They leave.
His penis in his hands
Kissed yet only by the night,
He tugs,
But loneliness is far stronger.
Mice are watching him.
Insects play in the light.
He imagines himself
Rotting there on his knees,
Knows
In the softness of his heart
That no one could be beautiful like this,
In their minds or God’s eyes.
Orgasm escapes him.
He climbs to his feet.
Sighs.
SIZE
Shallow
Puddles of interest
Glisten
Like real
Attraction
In the sun
Hiding
My true
Motivation
Coarse denim
Conceals
The fleshly
Member
That is my blue
Impetus.
BETWEEN HIS FINGERS
There are hands in my hair
the smell of sulfur 8
its tingle on my scalp
as the grease glides
on careful fingers
along the part shining now
on my full head
A comb on one side
holds the river of my hair
at bay.
There is a man in my hair
braiding deftly as we talk
about black folk
the stereo singing about love
He takes three reins and leads
my head towards him
I resist just enough
to let the cornrow come
then relax and tell him how
it hurts.
There are wishes in my hair
dancing between this man
and his fingers.
IN THE RAIN
I got caught
In the rain
The other day
And was happy
To be drenched,
Excited to tear off
My useless clothes,
To fondle myself.
Wet ghosts
Slapped their
Tiny hands
Against the earth.
Raw emotions
Streamed down
Into the crease
Between my buttocks.
I felt
Strangely unalone.
