First Utterings Read online

  Her studded cotton bloomers are a far cry from her heyday

  Of silk pantie girdles adorning luminous, feathered costumes.

  Now, a toothless strumpet – contemplating her beckoning tomb –

  Hoping the inscription reads, “Good Ole Sadie was such a fine lady.”

  ain’t easy

  From my perspective,

  I'd say being black

  ain't easy.

  Neither is being female,

  but the truth is life

  ain't easy.

  Struggle precedes categorization.

  It is universally human and it

  ain't easy.

  Frail and penetrable,

  the flesh buckles and cries, "It

  ain't easy."

  Heed sage biblical advice.

  Be of the Spirit though knowing being a Christian

  ain't easy

  either.

  The Things We Do

  The things we do

  for men

  to love us.

  We transform ourselves –

  repeatedly and unsuccessfully.

  Transparent incarnations of men’s desires.

  The whole while praying

  that our devotion satiates their

  insatiable fantasies and realities.

  The things we do

  for men

  to love us.

  From inception, we are taught

  to forsake and to sacrifice.

  For men.

  Indoctrination that boasts

  feeding men’s appetites for food and sex

  guarantees their love.

  For that love!

  Oh, the things we do

  for men!

  We neglect

  ourselves. Our God.

  Our children.

  We make men the priority.

  Worship their beings and relinquish

  our babies.

  Regrettably, the things we do

  for men

  to love us.

  We open our legs. Wide. Give what’s inside:

  our femininity, our soul, our peace of mind.

  Savagely, we thrust and grind.

  But, there is no crime, no sinuous fault

  in carnivorous pleasing. Unless

  it devours one’s soul.

  My God, the things we do

  for men

  to love us ...

  We, we women, are taught invisibility.

  Unaware that we should be acknowledged.

  That we – within ourselves – are worthy.

  Ignorantly seeking love in the darkest recesses

  of insanity.

  Finding neither love nor ourselves.

  The things we do

  for men.

  To love. Us.

  In March

  In March, I was born –

  barely escaped being April’s fool.

  In March, I celebrated womanhood

  in honor of National Women’s Month.

  In March, I found love

  in my eighteenth year.

  In March, I found love again

  in my thirtieth year.

  In March, my father

  died.

  In March, I wore Dunbar’s mask

  to smile through the pain.

  In March, I transformed

  from a child into a woman. All ...

  In March.

  I Love You

  During childhood years of playing

  Jacks, UNO, hopscotch and Connect 4,

  The thought of boys turned us girls into blaring sirens:

  “Ewwwww!” We proclaimed with great disdain.

  For everyone knew that boys had cooties.

  Yet, something about you illuminated. Before I could comprehend it,

  my heart sang –

  I love you.

  I still remember the date and the place:

  March twelfth. Two blocks from Carrollton and Canal Streets.

  Beneath the cool shade of aging maple trees,

  You kissed me – a teen apprehensive about her first kiss.

  Warmed by your embrace and the silk of your tongue,

  my body murmured,

  I love you.

  My quivering chin betrayed me.

  Tears streamed forward, I could not believe you deceived me.

  Your love was mine alone until I learned that it was not.

  From shock to rage to anger to hate, you disappointed me.

  We changed. Life changed. You returned ... love returned with you.

  Forgiveness – I learned its meaning for all that we have been through,

  I love you.

  Ducks sailed along the pond as sunlight weaved moss-laced trees

  To find us standing before family and friends but, most importantly,

  Before God. We vowed to love each other as Christ so loves the Church.

  Mistrust behind us, we emerged pure and unscathed.

  Reminiscent of that first kiss but stronger, more assured.

  On this day and forever more,

  I love you.

  We envisioned it together.

  Along a jubilant parade route, within the pulse of the Crescent City,

  We would raise our beautiful children. Just you, me, and the babies.

  Anna, the first child, who lived and died in the womb.

  The lucky one, Charles, wailed – announcing his arrival to the world.

  We rejoiced. Rejoiced all three months of his life.

  The others bear no names. Repeated loss. Our spirits could not sustain.

  Even in those darkest days, through my tearful silence, I maintained:

  I love you.

  "Cancer," they said. I prayed.

  “Why me?” you cried. Nevertheless I tried,

  For it was as much your life as mine.

  I caressed your cold hands and lay next to your frail body.

  In your concave eyes, I saw the youthful boy and my mature groom.

  The man that I loved, my love. So I prayed.

  You recovered. My womb breathed life. This time

  My husband and my baby survived. Surely,

  I love you.

  Kneeling upon the cold earth, I still feel you.

  Do you see our Anthony, our beloved boy?

  Tall like you, he is his father’s son.

  We visit your grave not to grieve but to celebrate.

  Life had not always been kind but blessed we were.

  Separated only by space and time, I cherish every moment of our lives.

  My dear husband, my friend, my lover, my life, please know

  I love you.

  Despair

  I live because I am a coward,

  afraid of the alternative.

  For what does it matter anyway?

  With or without me, the sun

  rises and sets. So I live.

  Choosing happiness

  except when the weight of emptiness

  is too great.

  Given to tears and admitting

  my reality is a mirage.

  Death took life moons ago

  and left me behind.

  So life continues. I merely exist

  in this world. Living yet not living.

  Praying

  for the Angel’s call.

  Eleventh Hour Prayer

  Familiar.

  I've been here before.

  Encased by light and sound,

  I am alone and

  Desperate.

  I cry because it is part of the routine --

  The all too familiar

  Routine.

  This time, however, I fear that

  I may cut deeper.

  Apply enough pressure to the blade

  To relieve my anguish,

  Free myself of this sorrowful existence.

  They say,

  "It is always darkest before the dawn."

  Ha! How dishonest!

  What the he
ll do they know?

  Light never shines my way.

  I've tried to appease the gods to no avail.

  Worshipping the money and the men of this world

  For a fix.

  Sinking to inconceivable depths

  To fulfill men's carnivorous lust,

  To feed the lure and the call

  Of Drugs.

  Never stone enough to remove

  The putrid taste from my mouth

  Nor halt the embarrassing reel in my head --

  Images of who I used to be,

  Who I've become,

  And who I shall never be.

  Free me

  From the trappings of my mind.

  Yes, I've worshipped the gods!

  But now I turn to you Lord!

  Evoking your name,

  Wanting to get near the Father by way of the Son.

  Help me see myself through your eyes --

  With your unconditional, enduring love.

  The prodigal child has returned.

  A shell of my former self,

  The slightest feint from eternal damnation

  Though I've been damned for years.

  Deliver me, Lord!

  Hold me in your bosom.

  Cradle your child.

  Please

  Heed my abiding cry.

  Let America Be America to Me

  Let America be America again.

  Let it be the reality promised in the social studies books,

  Where Francis Scott Key set my heart alight in a patriotic blaze:

  "The rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,

  Gave proof thro' the night that our flag was still there."

  (In my spirit, America has always been America to me.)

  Let America be the illiterate mother encouraging her daughter to read.

  Stocking the bookcase with tales of Harriet the Spy and Nancy Drew,

  Memorizing the 23rd Psalm. Then teaching it to her baby girl.

  Freeing her only child from the bondage of ignorance

  To create opportunities for each succeeding generation.

  (In my learning, America has always been America to me.)

  Let America be the dream I used to dream of –

  The alpha and the omega of existence.

  Where God spreads his love so liberally

  That the only color seen is that of the piercing eye:

  The gateway to the soul.

  (In my naivety, America has always been America to me.)

  Let America be a forum of consciousness.

  Embracing freedom of speech for it is our hallmark;

  Yet, recognizing the err of tea baggerish rants.

  For it is propaganda gone astray.

  Freedom of speech. Not freedom from decency.

  (In my humanity, America is almost foreign to me.)

  Let America be Dr. King’s dream truly manifested.

  “Separate but Equal” – disbanded. But,

  We are more separate and even further from equal.

  Taking our civil liberties for granted, we are to blame.

  Racial inequality is passé compared to economic disparity.

  (In my politics, America leaves much to be desired.)

  Let America be the place that values home.

  Men and women become allies, loving one another.

  Children honor their parents.

  Home is not just where the heart it is;

  It is where our foundation lies.

  (In my home, America respects its own.)

  Let America be what so many have sacrificed for:

  Where intelligence and hard work trump sloth.

  Where we disagree without being disagreeable.

  Where we the people fully participate in government.

  Where every man – even the gay man – is free.

  (In my heart, America can fulfill its potential.)

  For my America differs from Hughes’s reality.

  An African-American and a woman,

  I am discriminated against and even despised by a few.

  Unable to write like Mr. Hughes, I can still write

  My thoughts without fear. My America –

  Far less overtly prejudice but not perfect.

  In my America, “perfect” does not exist.

  And we know it. Anyone recall the Bush-Cheney era?

  Or the 2006 King Day tributes –

  Mayor Ray Nagin’s “Chocolate City” and

  Senator Hillary Clinton’s Republican plantation?

  No, no perfect here. Sometimes, we are hardly civilized.

  We must work on civility at home and aboard.

  Youth dying in urban streets as their peers

  Die in Afghanistan and Iraq with no real hope

  Of returning home.

  Home to a country that is still growing into its own ideals.

  Oh, Mr. Hughes, there is more than oil spilling in the Gulf.

  There are regrettable bank and auto bailouts,

  Frantic fall out over universal healthcare:

  The tendency to put business before people.

  We uphold the separation of Church and state,

  But the fanatics wear business suits and worship the dollar.

  Different times. Different problems.

  Your soul rests, however, knowing that we –

  the darker brothers and sisters –

  can sit at the table and no one dare asks us to leave.

  With President Obama at the helm, leading

  Without dependence upon his blackness.

  But the Mexicans …

  My God, the witch hunt never ends

  But finds new prey.

  I pray. And you should, too.

  Pray not for the things of this world

  But for the minds, hearts, and souls …

  The souls that roam the Earth in flesh