Two Steps in Front

Do you remember that night we went for a walk around the neighborhood? You were still in your shirt and tie from work and I had changed into a sundress because the temperature was just so perfect. It was only about nine that summer evening, but it was so dark it might as well have been 4 a.m. (I imagine at 4 a.m. it is pitch black outside; no one has ever been awake at 4 a.m. to tell me otherwise.) Plus it didn’t help that the power had gone out so every porch light and lamppost was less radiant than a firefly.

There was lightning in the distance. We assumed whatever storm was happening over there was responsible for the power outage. But it was only close enough to occasionally give us a glimpse at the street we were navigating – not enough to deter us from our evening stroll. A steady breeze blew the petrichor our way. You appreciated having that after-rain smell without having to tolerate the rain.

On our walk around the neighborhood when the power was out, I held your hand. We hadn’t held hands in quite some time before that night, but with it being so dark, it just felt natural. Your hands were rough – not from a hard day’s work, but because that was the time in your life when you had this awful habit of chewing on your knuckle. You insisted it was healthier than biting your nails, but I insisted you knock it off. I rubbed my thumb over the tiny hairs on the back of your fingers. Don’t worry; you’re not gross hairy! If I had known about your knuckle biting and finger hairs when we got married I would have been disgusted. But that night they seemed perfect, like they had always been a part of us.

Eventually I started to feel more comfortable. The neighborhood was a womb. I could grow and feel safe in the darkness. I said, “There’s something exciting about not being able to see two steps in front of you.” And you promised that you would try to always hold onto that feeling.

Tomorrow you might wake up and we’ll go on another walk around the neighborhood. Or you may keep sleeping. Or maybe I’ll lose you entirely and I’ll have to tell other people about that night we went for a walk around the neighborhood when the power was out. Regardless, you’ve kept your end of the deal. I’ve never known what was two steps in front of me; I’ve just never really cared before because you were walking it with me.

Thank you, babe.

City Life

This one needs serious editing, but here you go-

My whole life, people told me I couldn’t

handle the city because they never slow down.

I’m not sure who they are, but I’m certain

they do not reside in New York City.

Sure, these city folk always have somewhere to be

but they eat at outdoor restaurants and chat

long after the waitress starts to ignore empty glasses.

I just never saw that down South.

Just because ya’ll feel the need to drive everywhere

rather than stretch your legs or share a subway train

doesn’t mean you’re any more relaxed. A traffic jam

is hardly a time to be pensive.

But I think people here get the art of reflection.

I see too many people sitting alone in cafés with

mocha on their breath to believe you when you

say people here are not thoughtful.

Here, there is no hurry out of conversation

And there is no scurry to the next red light

And there is not much to deter daydreams

And I’m inno rush to get back.

Sticky School Bus Bench

The day I said nigger
I was old enough to know better
But too young to acknowledge my ignorance
Intended as a joke for my neighbor
On that sticky school bus bench

The day I say nigger
Self-indulgent laughter is the pin dropping
Vinny Foster tells me I oughta be punched
I wince away the sting until
The hum of my peers resumes

Because I said the n-word
I avoid controversy, step on no toes
I will not be the reason someone must
Gaze out the smeared windows and cry silently.
Maybe, again, that will be me.

Cheating

She holds the menu in both hands
Her hair is as tight as her stomach
Vultures swarm the neighboring tables
A sign of what is to come at her own

These men, they sit at desks
All day and this is their reward-
A white tablecloth and chardonnay
A lavish tip they’re sure to announce

She cheats. She looks at his menu
And then at his.
Order something cheaper
Don’t talk
Don’t finish the glass
You’ll be fine.

Faux Pas

I was a faux pas
I gave pause
To Ma and Pa

I fight
Feelings are foe
I forfeit, fall, and
Find fondness

I ponder
what does it mean-
Faux Pas?

She Took Her Medicine

My elbow dug into my mother’s crotch
My brother pinned her ankles to the floor
She could fight no more, palm wrapped over mouth
I heard the pills rattle against her teeth

She squirmed but I knew I had to hate her
I recalled times she could not lock the door
A pale ass thrusted into my mothers’
The pale ass never belonged to my dad

She moaned but she would not cooperate
At a young age I scanned the crowd distraught
My games were never as important as
Minimum wage to feed sister and me

Her muscles relaxed and the pills were gone
I lessened my hold and reeled in my hate
Remembered times she wiped tears and kissed scrapes
The regret when she explained the divorce

They say she’ll be fragile without the meds
It takes all her strength just to get them down
I can’t let go of the things she’s done wrong
She told me one day I’d be big and strong

Dark, Bleeding Eyes

My fingertips glide over his white briefs
And settle somewhere around his middle.
His breath is cool in a long sigh of relief
Knowing he’s solved me like a child’s riddle.
His pupil bleeds into his dark brown eyes
Look how often his nostrils flare
I know where I’ve put myself is unwise
My heart races like I’m in some kind of dare
I’ve fallen in love time and time again
Yet this is the first who wasn’t straight
This is the proof that a heart can mend
I see a lifetime after just one date
He says, Keep this secret – the world can’t know
Just another in denial, looking for a blow

SHOELACES & EVERYTHING

My son went to a friend’s house
For the first time since we moved.
Before he left I asked him to
“Tell me a little about your friend.”

My son was peeved by the inquiry,
but skateboard in hand,
helmet strapped on,
and new skater shoelaces tied too tight
he told me about the friend.

This young man’s name was Zack,
and that’s Zack with a K.
He was so cool, I learned, and
“He is good at, like, everything.”

One shouldn’t have to ask
for a definition of “everything,”
but with a nine year old,
everything
is really nothing at all.

Zack could skateboard and bike
like the guys on TV
and was VIP in every sport
but his best was basketball.

That was everything.

I wanted to say, “Son,
it’s not worth it,
pretending to be someone you’re not.”

For I knew the reason he tied his shoes
with two knots
was because he had not learned
it was cooler to just tuck the laces in.

But instead I handed him a helmet and asked,
“If it’s not too much trouble,
would you mind wearing this?”

Dance on Graves REVISED

That last poem I wrote has now been edited. Here is the new version-

DANCE ON GRAVES

You, oh teacher who knows no weary soul, let your students dance on graves. This is their reward for not making your headache any worse than it already was – permission to turn the cemetery into a playground. These are the men who fought and those who died and those who had no direction and thought Why not pick up a gun? You treat history like it doesn’t matter, and perhaps you are right, except that you are here.

You are here to reward children for mediocrity. This job, where you pour into lives of young ones, is nothing to you but a victory lap for the thousands Daddy paid to have you to drink and drug your way through four years of school. You will go home in hopes of making love to your husband, who might as well have been prearranged, even though he hasn’t touched you there in months.

The day is fast approaching where your complete disregard for the soldiers in those graves and your daddy nearing his is going to catch up with you. And you will repent. And you will likely divorce. Then you will repent for that as well, but I digress. Soon you will not reward students not for their ability to keep their mouths shut, but for the contributions they make that expand not only their knowledge, but your own.

Dance on Graves

You, oh teacher who knows no weary soul, let your students dance on the graves
of those who fought and those who died and those who frankly had no direction
and though why not pick up a gun, you treat history like it does not matter and
perhaps you are right except that you are here.

You are here to reward children for mediocrity and celebrate the thousands
daddy paid for you to drink and drug your way through four years of preparation
so you can go home to make love to a husband that might as well have been
assigned, even though he hasn't touched you in months.

You are here to convince yourself that you are in love with their innocence
but with love comes envy so where there is no envy you are left with pity
making no effort to remedy what you insist is wrong because you would
rather gather yourself before the charter bus home.