The Other Woman
But the other woman will always cry herself to sleep
The other woman will never have his love to keep
And as the years go by the other woman
Will spend her life alone
~Nina Simone
My eyes are nothing like the sun.
In fact they’re more like the black
Satin sheets draped over his bed last night
While I was caped over his head just right
Cloaking all his thoughts of you
Letting him slip them into the folds of
My womanhood with his tongue
Whisper secrets to my other lips
Explain to my second mouth.
I listened to his complaints.
Let me tell you Coral is red
And far redder than my lips
Until I paint them pomegranate
Like he likes them.
I straightened these wires to perfection
And sprayed myself with the scent of apples
And sex
Like he likes it.
He loves to hear my voice and
Yes I know how to “Oh baby oh” until
He lets it all go. I listen to him.
Let me tell you
I let him tell me
All his problems in simple motions
In simple strokes
His dimples curving
His body starving
I let him carve me right into the perfect woman.
I will let him use me as an excuse,
Make me his escape from reality
As he tries not to see the truth
He is falling for you
And doesn’t want another
Other than his mother to love him
This deep.
So he creeps
Right in between my pillars of strength and stands there
Like Hercules cus I make him feel strong.
It takes power to bend actuality.
I let him lay with me
Play with me like some secret toy
And he’s my puppet
I tell him when and where and let him chase me
Like the dog he is.
He’s just scared, baby
So don’t blame me
It takes two to tango
And as we were tangled
He wasn’t worried about your mangled heart.
He knew what he was doing from the start.
It’s not my fault.
He likes me cus I don’t need him
I’m on my throne just fine on my own
And he can come and go as he pleases.
But you have his heart
He won’t ever call me beautiful
He won’t let me sob on his shoulder
I’m his boulder, his mountain, his might.
I’m empty; just a tool and he will use me.
And maybe you, his woman
See right through me.
See that I’m lonely
And you are above me.
When I walk I tread on the ground
Body heavy
Carrying armies men have left me in my belly
I’m sick with bullshit
Can’t take nothing for it
Spreading my legs for hit after hit
Trying to embrace love-just a little bit
But there is none for the Mistress
I have learned.
…
Jailhouse
We were born behind bars
Toting titles like Jaquan, Shinequa, Diamond and Royal
Picked last for employment
Targeted first for police brutality
Dripped into stereotypes like diesel fuel
Keeping the machine running.
Our elementary school is
Covered in cast iron bars
Hugged by miles of chain link fencing
We played hopscotch on glass
And had picnics on asphalt
We know junior high school comes next…
The pissed stained stone-walls serve
As a boxing ring
For after school fights. We’re all angry
And we don’t know why.
We’re all hungry and we don’t know why.
I have no brothers and sisters
Just enemies and friends; the American way.
We’re learning how to make weapons
Out of plastic ware
Because we know the high school metal detectors
Will pick up on switchblades.
We’re just resourceful citizens
(How deep can I stab someone with a spork?)
We’re opening our legs, now,
Fifteen-year-old dicks
Carving names into our cervixes.
Faces aged by make up- skills that haven’t improved much
Since sixth grade.
We’re tough, now, skipping after school programs
And buying glocks.
Sagging our pants so low no one will hire us
So loose we can’t run from the cops
We’re thrusting asses into groins on Saturday nights
Lifting shirts and pressing adolescent bodies together
We don’t know what sex is but we’re having it
We don’t know what love is but we want it,
Between legs, inside boxers, bundled in strollers.
We want money earned all the wrong ways
We want our daddy back in the home
So we leave our own families to look for him.
We were born behind bars
Already trapped
Already shackled before the Aunt Jackie
Became famous
And taught us to clasp our hands together
We don’t see that ‘gettin’ lite’,
‘Toe wop’
‘Bad one’
Might just be dance nigga dance
Might just be mental slavery
We might not see….
We still party every weekend.
We still drink
We still dance
We still fuck
We still make excuses….
We’re justifying our wrongs, it’s the American way
(How far can I get before I get in trouble?)
Maybe it’s our fault,
Maybe we’re biologically lazy
(So what idiot would enslave us?)
Maybe we’re stupid
Maybe we don’t understand that higher learning
Is important.
Maybe we just don’t want to make something
Out of ourselves
Maybe….
Or maybe we can’t afford it….
Maybe we thought since the penitentiary
Is a block away from our High School
It was the next step
…
How to Ask out that Sista who writes those funny words in her notebook
Her Name is…
Her name is…
Name is…
Epiphany…
Destiny…
Princess!
Samantha?
No
She’s not gonna tell you so stop asking
Grabbing her hand when she passes
Staring at her ass and calling her a bitch
When she doesn’t answer
She’s not going to answer because
You won’t get her name right she is
Natural
Fuck air-conditioners
She runs just to feel the wind
She’s carrying money in her bra
And poetry in her pockets
She’s sticking fingers in electrical sockets
Just for excitement
Call her crazy
Call her nuts, call her out of her mind
Out of turn, out of line, out of choices out of chances
Call her out
Call her
She won’t answer.
Her name is…
Her name is
Question mark
You won’t guess
She won’t tell
Her soul is too big for her body
So she saws her ribcage to give it room
And it floods you
Her name is…
Too quiet for your screams
So you miss it, you miss out
On the best thing you’ve ever had
So you call again-
Call her anything but unhappy
It sounds so much worse than sad
Be prepared because…
She charges like an angry mother
Jumps like Jordans on summer-cooked b-ball courts
Runs like Emmet probably tried to
Digs her nails into your back mixing the secrets underneath them with your blood
So now you will spread her
Over
And over.
She is hiding bones beneath her bed
And skins between her sheets
Because sometimes she gets lonely
And falls in love with art
She finds it hard to compromise her words
And on several occasions has taken Tylenol because of poetry
Her tongue is forked between her teeth
And there is acid in her afro.
Her name is
Her name is…
Her name is irrelevant
Call her widow
Go back and ask her politely, nicely-
Remember she is dangerous
And then love her anyway.