I am a sort of prey, it seems.
she wakes me from a fitful sleep,
calls me with her strong northern
accent to the witching hours of
the night; an owl, I am not,
but she doesn’t care.
It is her way; her endless highway
of rights and wrongs and I am a
lonely traveler–this wayward
lover uninterrupted by my life.
She throws a few digital
connectors at me, begs me to
fetch them, and I click the
buttons on my phone that
allow me to see her beautiful face.
Hook. Line. Sinker . . .
treading water is my specialty,
yet her waves are often too
powerful for me to combat.
I refuse to be Blue Crushed into
an abysmal end.
Set me free, I chant.
My friend of 30 years says
to me, “She better not be playing
with your heart. She’s flirting–
you know this, right?”
And, I do, but something about
it all seems necessary–essential?
I wait for the breakdown to occur.
Surely, one is forthcoming.
The dog hears her voice and
lifts her head from dreamland
and I flit for volume control–
it really was too loud.
But her voice . . . does something
to me for which I haven’t found the word
and searching for one keeps
me busy.
I am bewitched, and no one
can reverse the spell.
Not even the one who
cast it.
Tag: Women
Surrender (Revised)
the lust-filled air summons us,
our hearts bent on breaking.
I have reached my limit for
raising hell and you
throw up a white flag.
surrendering never looked
so sexy.
this is what I tell myself
as I watch your body
cascade away from me . . .
you are a rhythm I fear
but I long for too.
could I be falling for the image
of you?
we lie awake
aware of the tempest between us
and life saddles us with
a harsh decision . . .
lean in or run away,
I choose to surrender.
Turn My Body Loose
A poetic rant
We, women . . . we cling to our bodies
our sense of self wrapped up in them
and warped to nothingness by the
White men who use their minds to
belittle and belie our truths at every
corner — at every junction.
How are we to live in a nation
full of vultures?
How are we to cope?
A balking group of people has
made it their life’s work to
strip the woman of the one
thing we had total control over — the body.
And what next? What will they
search and seize and lasso into
their slimy possession that
belongs to us?
We are yclept weaker or lesser
yet they use laws to silence us — to push
us into the closets of their making.
Is it fear? Is it egotistical? Is it bullying?
What can we say about the men
who have no desire to protect us?
What can we say about the women
who support them?
Turn my body loose. You have
no reign here — it is mine. I carry it,
I nurture it — grow it into the massive
mountain you wish you could climb.
Tread lightly, though, I can shake it
and rattle you at my will.
I can crush you if ever I feel the need to.
Were these your reasons? Is this your why?
Could you no longer take the
strength and representation within
something built of atoms and flesh and blood
that is not solely yours?
It boggles my mind how senseless
human beings have become
but even more so, how drunk with
power many men are.
If it were up to me, I’d rally
the world around us to bury
your tongues in the potholes meant
for them and turn the sun’s rays
up higher — burn, motherfucker, burn.
We’d stand by, fan the flames, and
call Lucifer to your collective side.
We’d let him have his way with you,
just as you’ve had yours with us.
Originally published in my new publication, soliloque, via Medium.
The Goods
A Rapid Rhyme (Audio)
He calls her up, one more time
for a memorable event
Blessing her with extras like
they do Jake cuz she’s got great rates
Put the money where it hides
tips her more than she desires
She doesn’t even count it anymore
lets it pile up like before
She’ll have enough for a new car
new house . . . new life
No more sticks
No more stones and absolutely
no more broken bones
He woos her with his lisp
showers her with special gifts
She pawns them at “The County Dime”
They pay her for her time
She leaves him empty-handed
Ole boy is whipped and stranded
She doesn’t even look back
Girl’s got moves to make
hijacks his heart and that’s the breaks
No one comes to his aid
this is what happens when everything
you want isn’t stamped “paid”
He searches for an exit
None can be found
None is at the ready
She keeps things nice and steady
Prepares herself for a new leaf
changes colors . . . changes beliefs
But still remains the same
You Don’t Come Around Anymore
Musical Selection: M.I.A. featuring Timbaland|Come Around
It’s another summer spent
without you waking up to
Nag Champa scenting my home
and I am growing used to
this empty space.
Someone said, “Just breathe
and be” and here I am breathing
and being without you and
it’s still hard and living ain’t
making it any easier, but
I am trying.
Isn’t that what you wanted
me to do — try?
A piece of mail from a junker
I am tired of seeing came with
your name in the recipient’s space
and I thought, “How odd? We
never really lived together. Why is
this coming here?”
Could you be tracking me?
What’s left in your arsenal of tricks?
I suppose you knowing where I live
and how often I check my mail
is an advantage or is it a disadvantage?
The mind wonders . . .
I will be relocating soon and
the memories of you left within
these walls will have to stay.
I can’t take them with me,
not this time.
I have a lotus tattoo on my
left wrist reminding me
that I am always at my
best when I come out of the muck
and when I was with you —
that’s all I did, come out
of the muck . . . over and over again.
I am done with being dirty.
I want to be clean, for now.
So you don’t come around anymore
and my mom says “Perhaps this is
best, baby. We ain’t made to
be living in the past.” She’s right.
I know she is.
But there’s a small part of
me still trying to climb up
out of the same muck and
reach out to you to get
down and dirty once again
with me.
And I have to stop this.
I want to stop this.
I can’t.
Originally published in Intimately Intricate on Medium.
A Cornered Gurl 
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