Dear Travis

Even as you grow
in age
in weight
in shoe size
know this…
You will always be
my little man
and despite the fact
that you can’t form words
I know you hear me
Feel me
You know you are loved
You are precious
Irreplaceable
Perfectly you
However,
I wish that I could make it better
Take it all away
The stares from strangers
Your pain and limitations
But God had a plan for you
and for us
I will continue to trust
as I protect you
and love you
I’d give the clothes off my back
In fact,
If ever I had to choose
between you or my death
I'd tell you I love you
with my very last breath.

In Your Arms

The safest place on earth is in your arms.
Your embrace is a haven for my at-risk soul.
It’s been battered and bruised
but with you, I’m made whole.
You told me before that in your arms I fit perfectly.
No truer words have ever been said verbally.
In your arms, lust and love become one,
and from your cosseted hold I never want to run.
Your body does to my body what oxygen does to a flame.
Igniting fires of desire,
I feel alive,
and my heart is set ablaze.
So much is said during the moments that we touch
You can hear my soul if you listen close enough.
Don’t let go…
She's whispering,
Don’t let go…
Please my love, don’t ever let me go.

Black Kings

I worry about your legacy, my Kings.
There’s a malignancy pilfering your souls.
It’s out of control.
It’s despicable
and it’s taken a toll
on our entire community.
Mothers burying their children.
Fathers in and out of prison.
News reporters speculating
because statistics predict
that you’ll be judged by twelve
or either carried by six.
It use to be the Klan murdering the black man
but today you’re responsible for your own demise.
Shooting up your hoods, then you run and hide
as gunshots ring through the air like an anthem,
but you get no praise.
When you look in the mirror what is it you see?
A young Black King with no integrity?
You’re cowards
and you’re afraid
of being individuals.
Painters, doctors, or hell,
burger flippers.
There is dignity in all honest work, my Kings
but you remain enslaved while you
answer to names
like Nigga without knowing from whence
that came?
Black men like you stood proud with no concern
as their houses and possessions were all being burned.
Whips and chains…
Cries of pain…
Your ancestors were even stripped of their names.
But today you're free to soar like eagles,
yet you clip our own wings.
Violence is not your inheritance
and it’s not your fate, I pray.
Black Kings without crowns
who’ve simply lost their way.

Hyperthymesia

I’d know you even in complete darkness.
Your memory fills every minute of my 1,440 minute day.
The echo of your baritone voice plays like the soundtrack
of my mezzo-soprano world.
There’s no pressing pause.
No option to annul.
It just goes on and on like an endless serenade beneath the window of my soul.
I recall with fondness caressing every inch of your six foot frame.
I would touch the muscles in your back,
ever so gently,
as if they were braille,
revealing the answers
to my most intimate questions:
Do you love me?
Are you afraid too?
Do you want me as much as I desperately want you?
At times I try to suppress your image and wipe away recollections…
but I can’t.
You are my person.
Before you there was no one and after you there can only be imitators.
And though I curse this condition, I’ve realized something far greater.
Trying to forget someone you love is like
remembering someone you’ve never met.
It’s an impossibility,
so I must acquiesce.

The Last Time

You held me close.
Close enough that I could hear your heartbeat.
Close enough that even when you whispered,
my body vibrated with the rhythm of your words.
Your voice is music that I can dance to without end.
I inhaled your unique scent of sexy
and became inebriated
as I felt it course through my veins like a good drug.
Melting from your touch,
I caught chills as your fingertips rested softly on the small of my back.
That moment was flawless and magical
and left me not wanting to ever exhale.
And if I had known then that it would be the last time
you’d hold me in your arms,
the last time I would count the butterflies
as I watched them leave my being,
I swear I would have held on to you
forever.

My Mother's Love

Giver of life,
thief of my worth.
Was I a blessing
or was I her curse?
She’s the foundation
of my existence,
the spring from which I flow.
But her anger was obvious.
It left scars in my soul.
And I don’t know
if I remember
ever being told
You’re beautiful!
Good job!
I’m proud of my girl!
These are words all
daughters
need in their world.
At three I waited patiently
for a hug and a kiss.
She gave food, clothes, and shelter.
She did her job
I guess…
Still, I wanted
love,
attention,
emotional nourishment.
She let me starve
as I hungered for her affection.
Forty years later
I still have to question,
if she wanted me
or was I an obligation,
a situation
to make the best of.
It matters
because today
I still want
my mother's love.

Balance

Trembling,
I cross a tightrope
without a safety net
or savior.
It's just me
on my own
trying to maintain my balance.
Family cling to the left of me.
My career pulls from the right.
I wobble as I walk alone,
but I’m not afraid to fight.
Failure lurks beneath me.
I hear his vehement calls.
Descension is not an option.
If I slip, everyone falls.
At all costs,
by any means necessary,
I must maintain my balance.

I Go On

Even with a knife in my back,
I go on.
You were my friend,
my sister,
my twin soul
and I don't even know
how it came to this.
What hurts most is that
now I question everything;
the laughter and the tears.
We told each other secrets
but was any of it real?
I loved you like family
and I pinky swear to that.
In fact, you were my soulmate
who's now become an enemy
executing sneak attacks.
You caught me off guard
when you stabbed me in the back.
I'm hurt deeply and I miss our sisterhood.
We were ride or die Divas,
I thought you understood.
It's OK though, I'm good.
And even with this knife
lodged firmly in my back,
I go on.

The Tie That Binds

The tie that binds
me to you
is unbreakable.
I’ve twisted and tugged
until my hands throb
and my heart bleeds.
Common sense pleads
with me to set myself free
but I lose all cerebral abilities
as memories creep
into the fibers of my being.
I hold on tightly
and try to believe that
the tie that binds
will one day guide us
back to where
we should always be....
together.

Be My Fence

A proverb from Ghana declares that: A woman is a flower in a garden; her husband is the fence around it.

Drained and discouraged
from playing the role of
provider,
protector
leader and mom.
I doubt I was called
to be everything
to all,
but I put on my stilettos
and try to stand tall.

Should I be embarrassed
or be red-faced
for longing for the one
from who's rib I was shaped?

I want a man,
the one meant
for me,
to
be
my
fence.