I offer you the spurned loyalty of a woman who
has ever been the stupid loyal fool.
I offer you that kernel of myself—that unwanted
playmate—that central core that deals not in
dreams, but traffics in pain and is undiminished
with time, knows no enjoyment—a wellspring
of adversities.
I offer you the memory of stolen virginity, a rose
violated under a mother’s vigilant fear.
I offer you spells to relieve emptiness, incantations
to calm troubles, surprising magics to delight
the tongue and eye.
I give you my graciousness, my roundness, the feast
of my words; I am trying to bribe you with
certainty, with deliciousness, with victory.
Black Alice Laments
—after Lewis Carroll
one midnight flight to Xanadu
i got lost in the sky
the cloud i rode had quite a load
that dwindled bye-and-bye
it made me late, a fact i hate
but i’ve not learned to lie
by the time i got to Xanadu
my night had turned to day
all the gold had turned to gilt
and all the crystal, clay
the partyers were snoring bores
the goodies stashed away
by the time i arrived in Xanadu
sweet mama proved a crone
cracks and crannies sported dust
and brambles maned the stone
and everything i thot was steel
had crumbled as if bone
as i made my descent on Xanadu
my bowels were in my throat
my hair was gray my hands were red
and i couldn’t sing a note
and as i warbled at the swans
my last glass slipper broke
by the time i stormed drear Xanadu
all the stories had been told
the mirth was spent, i hadn’t a cent
my courage was going cold
and when i touched the hand of God
it simpered into mold
by the time i found lost Xanadu
my rose had lost his bloom
the music men had packed and fled
the dance floor was a tomb
and all the thrills that might’ve been
were shrieking in the gloom
one midnight flight to Xanadu
my heart fell from the sky
the cloud i rode had quite a load
that dwindled bye-and-bye
which made me blue, but ever true
for i’ve not learned to lie
Put Some Sex Sonnet
—after Tom Clark
the honeypot becomes so sweet under his tongue
it strengthens his arousal and at the same
time causes him to lick harder, which stimulates
her further richness to facilitate a mounting
moistness. her orgasm fairly pulls him under as he
thrills to the duet of sphincter & cervix—
the inexpressible pleasure of her contractions
inspired by him—as she melds beyond complete relaxation
in too exquisite a surrender, her body opened and
well-lubricated, welcoming the easy thrust of his hips
in a spell of satisfaction, knowing yet another wave
of pleasure awaits her as his penis glides/rides
the residuals of her first wave, daring her. more
I Ain’t Yo Earthmama 3
—after Francine Coneley
i’m so big i can barely walk. i wear
tent dresses for coolness and comfort.
i rock ’n’ roll, stumble ’n’ scoot. when
some man likes me, he says “Hotcha Big Mama!”
when he teases, he says the same
i live everywhere at once. hot pink mules
toast my feet. my hair is braided tight
against my scalp under this’n wig.
‘girlfriend this and girlfriend that,
skinny men prefer ’em fat.’ my good good
cookin’ keeps folk comin’ round. when
i stomp my foot the ducks take ground
i relax by sitting for so long
staring at the TV screen, reading my
fanzine, making sweet things for dessert,
’tween frettin’s why can’t i make this life work
when i walk too much too slow, i sweat head-to-toe
my heart thumps in my neck, my arches
threaten to fall. i gasp
the only safe stairway for me to climb
is in my dreams. sometimes the world fits
and though i can’t be called small
no one laughs or cracks jokes behind my back
i will cut you
with my tongue
my nails and the
butcher’s knife
in that order
when i sit on concrete, it gives
when i sit on a man, he disappears
i have pretty eyes, they say
when i stomp my foot, the ducks take ground
Supermarket Surfer
—after Allen Ginsberg
what bohunkian images i have of you
crash against my niggernoggin as i shiver and stroll
long air-conditioned aisles at 2 a.m. the liquor
l under lock and key, the lettuce full and moist with
a fresh spray of mist and neon
my cart wobbles giddily on crooked wheels as i sputter
between the confused and the absurd as i cruise for pudding
and citrus-free hand lotion. there’s plenty of disabled
parking outside. it is lonely here though the
automatic doors never close and a bleak phosphorescence
never dims and bananas are going at two pounds for
the price of one. the bin of avocados is small
and most of them more like plankton-stained golf balls
or too rotten. somewhere, i am detected via camera
lens while picking over pepper mills between
the spice racks and the baking soda
hang ten toward checkout is a certainty
the only Walt here is Disney
the pork chops are killing me
i am a nobody angel
my heart is a frozen delicacy
Obituary
—after Denise Levertov
The unread poems of true poets
are sad. No one should love
so hard in vain and go unnoticed.
This sunset should trouble
the sky. Rip the curtains
from the windows and shout
It’s their fault!—the craven curs
around and around and all fall
down everywhere, the gut-rending
sound of cogs grinding and poets
felled silent. If the empty only
feed the empty, the reign
of apathy will go on and Molochs
triumph. True poets will go on,
unread, eking out a space at the mean
end of time. They will bare their
teeth and spring at the moon.
Her Poem
—after Anne Sexton
I went out to possess the spirit of women
when it was bitch & butch, feeling the
bold itch to write. Sexton and Plath were
long dead, but there she was—her renown
was named Ann. And it didn’t matter
if I was of a different race, she
handled my fire with a learned grace.
She was a mere snip of a lady in her
size two dress and mushrooms, with
graying flaxen hair. And the room
was crammed with nymphal poets
like myself, and we leaned into our
elbows,
hushed our competition for
her eyes, and scribbled sacred notes.
Two-thirds into the lecture one lass
finally asked, “Where do you get ideas
for poems?” Ann pantomimed the act. “I open
Webster’s Dictionary,” she entoned, “and at
random, let my finger fall upon a word. And
I think upon that word until upon my page
a poem has bled.” With that, I promptly
dropped my pen and in a snit I fled.
My Bleak Visitation
—after Sun Ra, for Gloria Macklin
In the early days of my earthly visitation,
Black hands slapped me and spanked me . . .
Black minds, hearts and souls rebuffed me . . .
yet I loved them hungrily, in spite of that.
In the early days of my visitation
Black lips called me names, as did White lips
but somehow, those names on those Black lips
impaled me like spears on which I forever writhe.
I became a name caller.
The hearts, minds and souls of my kin were denied me—
even today the overtones from the fire
of that lovelessness still burn in my brain.
I am twisted and hurt and death-damaged.
Yes—in those early days of my visitation
White rules and laws segregated me also,
but Black fear, ignorance and self-loathing
separated my soundness from my spiritfist.
And so
the strength I pray for and the freedom I seek
bear convolutions heretofore unaddressed, make
me the radical’s radical, inspire a sacrifice so deep
it rattles the old bones and the old stones.
I am the Reaper’s scythe. Unforgiving in my sweep.
I am. Because of that. Not long ago enough. Twisted
and hurt and damaged.
Outside In
—after Diane Wakoski
She walks the purple carpet into my eyes
carrying the thirty pieces of silver
but an airplane rumbles overhead,
leaving its streamlined fantasy on my soul
and old aches the endless rings of a telephone on hot
afternoons
no one answers, and that fact is a giant fly buzzing
thru my consciousness, stirring up murderous swats.
Loan me a hundred, she said,
from inside his boxes, those sorry imitations of Cornell
ashamed of her wig of Italian hair, explaining
that nappy heads have to work. Of course, I understand. But
they are about to cut off her lifeline. And her hands
pick at the hair every second, like whiskers on a cat,
inside her old head, too many acid trips, a ruined mouth
where
she
grinds her teeth when she chatters endlessly
about nothing on the phone, and writing anthems
that no one will ever hail. She’s too mature to expect a music
career.
I cannot let her walk inside me too long
the muscles in my stomach knot and
I heave.
I must reach down and pull her out
like a writhing asp
from my breasts.
Having Lost My Son, I Confront the Wreckage
—after James Wright
During dark,
on the borderline between sea & soul
I walk yesterday’s path, hunting everywhere,
seeking to explore every light
walking corridors that close around me
like the birth of a pearl.
Behind a star
its light on the chilled rubble
of my city-bred heart:
Frost, frost.
This is where he has gone
stillborn, under the eaves.
Bundled away under waves and smiling faces.
Beyond sick, I go on
clawing earth, making brick,
erecting monoliths. Here, on these altars
all the urns,
all the lost hopefuls.
This cold summer
Sun spills inhuman snow
the jewels
of his tears burn my palms.
Living. He’s living still. I will
not let him die!
I will not let his light escape
this beauteous ruin.
Letter to My Older Sister 6
Hi, Georgiana.
When you see Pop, tell him I said hello.
Just a few days ago I was recalling
him in the light of my near death. We
were once again standing off in the dark
stall of hospital admissions. It was
October, 1957. His 43rd birthday was days
away, as was my eleventh. And I was sick
with delusions and fever (you know, as
said elsewhere, they’ve never quite left me).
I was wrapped in my favorite heavy
blue blanket, pulled straight off the bed in
Mama’s panic. I was in those blue and white
print flannel pjs Mama sewed. I was so sick
I couldn’t stay awake, kept going in and out
of consciousness. I listened that night as
Pop and Mama desperately argued with the
White admissions nurse and begged her
that I be allowed to see a doctor. They just
didn’t let any Negro child into the hospitals
in those days, especially if the physician
didn’t oversee the admission himself. I can’t
drive this city without thinking of Pop.
Tell him I’m sorry I haven’t been able to
keep up the gravesite. Tell him I’m sorry
that things haven’t worked out as I’d hoped.
Tell him I’m sorry that rent, food and
transportation are still the big issues. Tell him
that I know it’s late and that I’m way overdue.
Yours,
Black-Handed Curse
May the sky widen between your eyes
and a storm twist across your thoughts.
May the false images you create devour all you
give birth to. May the false images you worship obscure love.
May you look in the mirror and see the malignancy.
May you writhe in dishonor. May you writhe hearing the voices
of those you have dishonored. May you writhe knowing the
whole of the pain you’ve caused others.
May the limitations you impose on those more gifted
than yourself steal the beats of your heart.
May you be kept out of the heaven
from which you have kept others.
May no one hear your last words.
May a small rodent eat your last words.
Moon Cherries
1
smudged fingerprints
cheap water-based paint, lust ten layers deep
over and over the walls speak
voices clear and without accent tell me
what one so-called friend kept secret
a terrible penalty will be paid for trust
(o and to think i brought it into the
house)
who was the Hecuba who believed good potlikker
could rule out genetic predisposition
and nullify cradle-to-grave social abuse?
who was the Hecuba who could
2
midnights bring on poisoned sleep
spells for success fail
and a wedding day bodes an abiding and
relentless bleeding. downfall will
come with the muted cries of lock-key kids
his pleasure restricted to the pursuit of
his dope-fed illusions & her deluded belief
that not only can she overcome adversity,
but bad advice and the jealousy of knaves.
their journey is a shock-ridden careen
through a wasteland of slashed wrists,
amphetamines and unscratchable itches.
their deep-Hollywood story will
come to its predictable ending: the rape
of beauty, a secret bludgeoning, the
death of an angel
3
but when this grim heart
slips into its grimmer past
of terror shame rage
where broken dreamless nights
are interred, there is no relief
in pretense. fantasy is an affront.
ordinariness was wanted yet denied. what
was never learned in time proved the
undoing. mind be still. the crack-up
intensifies these recollections,
resurrects the flood of a bitter spring
4
you know it’s your fault you
kept doing it when you should’ve
stopped. you squandered irretrievable
bliss. you. the reason of you the
mirror says you, the highball glass contains
you, your face floats up from the ash and
smoke at the end of this cigarette.
the clock spun backwards around you.
from behind the closed door out you stepped. you.
under the merciless light you were revealed
these are the dark currents in which
you do the butterfly stroke upstream. you. so
rude & tender & strong. you are a guardian,
no, a watcher, no, a warden. you are what was
Wicked Enchantment Page 16
