Self Love
The evening I stopped watering
your cacti seeds in my wrists,
chest and ankles — I slathered
Crisco on my wounds like a black
woman’s wives tale. I untied my hair
and a forest grew in the tangles.
A waterfall moved in me and mango
juice dripped from my skin.
It took some time for my eyes
to adjust to the light and for my
body to stop shivering, expecting cold.
The sun rises in me every morning now
and the scars from your chains are faded
constellations on my limbs. I no longer
lie on my back, looking for the map
to escape in the stars — I am North now.
I am free.
Free
Teach us the difference between ownership
and loving. You own a goat. A watch. A car.
You love a city. A poem. A memory.
Love me like you love the sunset. Like you love Langston Hughes’ poetry. Like you love Aretha Franklin’s highest note. Like you love Harlem. Chicago. Kingston. Nairobi. Lagos.
Love me like you love freedom.
Love me like you love fighting for freedom.
Love me like being free.
Open
I want to sink into you like a handprint in moss.
Memorize your soil. Spin your silk around my fingers.
Let masculinity and roses be the same thing.
Let bravery and softness be the same thing.
Let self-perseverance and love be the same thing.
Like an eclipse makes light and day one,
let us become the moon hovered against the sun —
bodies still, pressed against the shadows,
warm against the heat, holding our breaths
until the next time our skies touch.
I Remove Myself From Love
I remove myself from love
and it simply is—
a word without teeth,
without claws,
without skin.
I remove myself from love
and it just hangs there—
dangling like an old
cellar light bulb string.
I remove myself from love
and the pain drains
through my fingertips
and light rises over the horizon
and the sun bursts through the clouds
and laps vigorously at my skin
but I can’t feel it.
Black Fear
We sat in the dark, the tree’s prying fingers
scratched at the windowpane, our faces illuminated
by the red glow of the car radio.
You stared ahead, lamenting about too many tombstone
headlines of young black men, like yourself.
I reached out to touch, headlights flooded the car.
A familiar white and blue striped face snarled
at my taillights as one of our finest took a step of pride
in his dark, silver adorned uniform, scrubbed clean of
blood and guilt.
You grimaced, thinking of your teenage years, your hands
resting on the cheeks of a sweet-faced girl with lighter skin,
a flashlight pointed accusingly at your face as a radio asked-
is it safe?
This cruel, broken world, I heard you think.
We smiled thinly.
We spoke our pleasantries.
We held our breaths.
He left.
I’m tired of always being afraid, you said.
As I clamored into your lap—elbows knocking windows, head brushing roof,
feet entangled in seatbelt-straps—I tried to kiss away your fear.
I tried to kiss away your fear as if our lips could build a force field
to keep all the pain, and shame and dread away.
The longer we kissed the stronger the force field would grow,
and the cops would stand outside tapping on the walls,
and the angry bigots would press their guns to the glass,
and the ignorant crowds would storm—
But as long as we kissed their fists, their bullets, their screams
would simply bounce off like pebbles against a great fortress
and fling back towards their gaping faces.
Then they would feel fear.
Then they would feel shame.
Then they would feel dread.
And we would be free,
suspended in our pure, impassioned lust,
as the radio broadcasted their tombstones
and we held vigil in the dim, red glow.