my naked body spills upon the couch

eyes losing the strength to open

so I lie here.

still as a painting

life’s pang lingering between breasts–

this the pause I take after the day packs up its shit 

somehow I’m still tense,

doubting if the day’s work was enough (If I am enough).

being a brown figure, with red and black contours

too tired to put titties on a pretty–lace platter

too tired to be clothed

too tired to find a distraction to take me away

so I sit in it.

Let the cigarette balance on an ashtray,

Let the exhaustion

rupture every fabric off my body.

my limbs sink between blue-colored cushion

as still as a painting

I, a frozen image.

proof of a tired woman

behind his back

wrists bend toward each other

as if sentencing himself

without cuffs

(just confidence of the reprimanding of society’s hand)

he questions his lifelines,

like he knows trailing through life 

overgrown cornrows, and black skin against a white sky is wrong—

or 

maybe he tucks them behind himself because he got fields of self to hide,

inches of words he keeps 

tucked in the sharp of his teeth, beneath shut lips

centimeters of tears that leave only when wiped with a fist

he knows to be man, you must brushstroke in bold—with not a goosebump to show—

torso stout 

with blue stoic shades

to match

you cannot let them see the breaking 

or the growing of a man 

they want you finished product.

black Man who prevails all,

tells all—

or maybe your black Man turned cautionary tale,

a deprecating sitcom

(it’s better you keep your mouth stoic,

an expressionless blackface)

play—still silhouette on canvas

while they try to make up 

what you mean?

what it means to be

 man, and 

Black, and

 color —at the same time

what it means to be the world’s fury and beauty

contradictions make them uneasy

the history paints him dark but they see the halo ushering the glow beneath his skin,

they ask which is it?

8th wonder of the world

who beat the odds or a Emmett Till,

Vigil Ware, 

or simply

a midnight-walking-street-terror

what does a black Man mean if it’s not fear 

and story—

if it’s not a tapestry of multicolored narratives

why 

does

 a black man

have to mean

anything

I see my reflection in the window,

close my eyes,

feel a pain as grey as daybreak fog

in my chest.

I remember another day to face.

another day he isn’t here.

to convince me of my reflection,

through the shiny glare of his eyes

I could always better witness

the softness of my skin,

or the draping of my hair

that spans to my decollate.

I put myself on him everyday.

begged him to carry me

gave up on the possibility of discovery;

traded in binoculars for his bones

saw pathways of self in his embrace

being his religion

made her believe in herself.

now that he is gone

she must peel back the layers of skin she refused to shed,

now that he is gone 

she doesn’t know heaven,

cannot fathom the God in her smile

the deity in her hips

she sings black hymns rejecting her own skin

as if she wasn’t real 

before his worship.

a slash of sunlight soars above her crown

the illumination urges her to see the life beneath his absence.

she catches her breathe

closes her eyes

her reflection in the window is loud—wailing

as if she has just come to life

I Saw Daddy Noiselessly Cry on Mama’s Lap

slow like a turtle

his broad-shoulder shell

      the weight of a house

        laying on foundation

laying on solace

laying on woman.

when the world crumbles its troubles

on men

as it most often does, 

he would clasp his hands in prayer 

and marinate on her lap

her hips —

as wide as the ocean — held him — so wide one would think a miracle could spawn from the             space,

the comfort of home weaves in curves

— so stable, one think her thighs were stone.

From her, I learned care —

my mother’s tender hands accepts his rough skin in surrender

leaning on each other,

body to body 

even as reality spear tries to mutilate.

though 

the world sees my father as more scary and less scared

being black 

and man

my mother knows the tension in his body tenderly 

her palms embrace every ache under his steel-armor.

From him, I learned body language —

how tear ducts could shy away from 

family, daughter, the bitch-of-life

but how,

sometimes,

man can’t help but to cry through his body

crack the erect shape of his limps to something less than defender

How men.

Sometimes.

can’t help but to sulk in the confines of an unanticipated protector.

Vulnerable.

Free. 

and still

man.

I spent the summer 

collecting leaves

of the most elegant decay

put them in a plastic protector behind a clear sheet

watching their colors fade

observing the cracks

and the holes that form

one leaf of a horizon-hue had a hole pierced right where a left breast would be

a gaping crooked oval —

the wind quakes the pit with every in and out breath

decay licks the leaf to a browned hue akin to my skin

I pick it up and move it sideward to hover before my face

and see how perfectly the 

void fits around my iris

I bet that leaf fell 

from a 

barren tree 

the one with branches so thin the blue sky glances

right through

the stem 

closest thing to foundation

bends —

the same way branches

bustle by the winds 

howl 

decay slaughters the structure of what once was whole

that leaf

with the slightest touch crinkles to dissolve

James Baldwin

My best friend,

A black boy

jumped 

              off

                     the

                             George

                                           Washington 

                                                                Bridge

when he was 24

I was sure

I was going to be next 

not because of despair

but rage.

a red circle of rage

neighboring in my black body

like a plague—

hating everyone

and myself

alike

______________________________________________________________________________

There never was a chance

for a black writer.

a writer, black or White

doesn’t have much of

a chance.

nobody wants a Writer

until their hands

are paralyzed 

in rest

Background: According to Wikipedia (the most trusted site of course) “found poetry is a type of poetry created by taking words, phrases, and sometimes whole passages from other sources and reframing them by making changes in spacing and lines, or by adding or deleting text, thus imparting new meaning.” Which is what I did here with this 1979, never aired, James Baldwin video.

Hesitation

the mystery of you has dug daggered teeth into my mind

the inquiry that makes up my thoughts in an attempt to obtain yours

has planted weeds of neurosis 

but in the midst of contemplation and painted pedestals

I am clueless to the scent of you 

my palm reminiscences over an enveloped handshake 

the only gateway to the thread of your skin

the fog of time and distance engulfs your shreds of lip

can’t recall the exact mold of your nostrils

but the gaze you held is memorialized in every crevice of my mind

your eyes were loud

like they could tell me about the world 

and more

like there was more to vocalize than the stream from your lips

dreads past your shoulders the brown of branches, vertically long

you stand

the bark of your brown skin

in a past 

Courage and I can no longer taste

Hesitancy trapped me

as Fear’s best friend

she told folklore that kept every limb frozen in your presence

will the movie of your absence end

will I see you again and say 

enough to make a body of words

or will overthinking stammer footsteps of possibility

(once again)

My daddy had ebony skin 

but he liked his women redbone and thin

My daddy had muscles that were barbed

but his gut was more jutting

My daddy had eyes as big and wide as the ocean

I see him in these pupils of mine and the creases that shadow them

as his carbon copy not a day went by that someone neglected to tell me.

I remember, sitting on your lap,

my limps sinking in comfort upon your cologne shrouded chest

I remember your fingernails

as filthy

as men I know now

I remember your green, 1995 Jeep Grand cherokee

arriving

then 

Leaving

our driveway

I remember how “I love you baby” twisted off your tongue—skepticism etched in my ears for eternity.

I was 16 when grandpa called about your departing

but at my core,

I remained at that window—a longing little girl—watching your Jeep Grand Cherokee 

Leave.

Nowadays I meet suitors as sweet as you were,

and they love me 

just the same

Play (in the) Ground

Another day invites me,

my hand seized

with life-wrenching

celerity

wrist is encapsulated

like the grasp of children on a playground

their bantam hands gripping

the swings

they clutch chains like 

their last breath

the monkey bars

as they hang,

Established

by their own strength

or lack there of

brown mulch

muffling their falls

so they are

preserved

granted the privilege 

of more time being swallowed,

Frivolously 

they skip 

and saunter,

awaiting their next

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