The Reckoning

The Reckoning
Restless, in a midday swig of regret,
you reach for me in disguise, a different man,
still drunk with the waves that swell from the salt of your ego
to reel me in, to rescue, to revive me within you
In your words, “You are the reckoner”
In my ears, “You are the relapse”
You seek refuge in my amber whiskey skin
to retreat from the bitter beats in your chest

I wade in your stream of consciousness
to wet my feet in our reconnaissance
In your eyes, “You were a convenience.”
In my mind, “I was a fool”
You pursue me on foot in midday blues
The stumbles in your stride release me.

Awake

Awake
An epiphany awakened me this morning:
“Time is the only belief every person will follow.”
These words sprinkle across my brain; soil
from a dream where past lovers poke me with cattle prods
and urge me to meander through green pastures,
to dig through my innocence in search of revival.
I swear I seize the defining breaths through their palms,
that my trembles beneath the grit of their skin are proof
of tenure, that we’ve added our words to the subtraction
of clothes, and our limbs multiply into a likeness of Shiva.
I believe time will offer the logistics of our curiosity
a porous concrete to sink our feet into if we grow weary
of the weight we bear when we gaze at our reflections,
within each other’s eyes, through the scope of our fears.
We open our eyes when we need to, like the birds do.
The confirmation of being awake, still pending.

When Angles Dance

When Angles Dance
You told me that in order to change life,
I must first change myself;
To search, to nourish, to love myself.
But you never told me what it means to fall.
To trip over pieces of the gravel beneath me,
and join the weakest part of them;
not malleable, just easily broken,
not rough, just jagged around the edges.
You never told me what it means to surrender,
that the trip is just the foreshadowing of death
And the fragments from the fall are the beginning
of a whimsical waltz, the other side of living.
Have you ever seen angles dance?
We're the debris that glides through the wind,
We tousle your hair and nip at your skin,
You take a second to sweep us away
You told me that in order to change life,
I must first change myself.
I am lost, I am hollow, and I am open.
Dance with me.

Generations

One morning when I am eight years old, I wake up to the sound of my mother crying. I climb out of bed with fear pulsing in my little belly. It’s a pitiful cry. It doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard. The only grown up I’ve ever seen cry was Auntie Sharon once when Cousin Richie got hit by a car. She dipped her head so we wouldn’t see her face. She was quiet. I thought she looked graceful, like the White Swan from Swan Lake. I walk into the kitchen where my mother is hunched over the counter. Her peach face is swollen and splotchy. Her eyes are glazed with tears and sleep. Her hair looks like a bush of daggers. She doesn’t look like my Mommy. She looks like a monster. I want to turn around and jump underneath the warm covers on my bed, where it’s safe. But she sounds sad. I have to know what’s wrong. “Mommy?” “Kristen, go to your room.” “Are you okay?” “Just go to your room!” I turn around and choke back my own tears. Mommy never likes to see me cry. She says it makes me look weak. I crawl under my baby pink comforter and wipe my eyes. Daddy was coming back from his trip today. I missed him. He seems to like having me around. He always wakes me up in the morning by kissing my forehead and calling me Princess. Mommy doesn’t like it when he calls me Princess. She says it makes me look spoiled. “Look at this pig sty.” Mommy stands at my door. Everyone says that I look just like her. But right now she looks like a witch. “I’m still a little bit sleepy Mommy; I promise I will clean up my room later.” She bends down and picks up my favorite white skirt from off the floor. She tosses it so it drifts over my face. “Do you think I’m your maid? What, you thought since Daddy was gone I was going to pick up after you instead of him?” “No, Mommy.” “You think my father would ever let me sleep late on a Sunday morning with a room this disgusting?” She laughs. It’s a wild laugh. Her nose flares and her eyes look madder than before. “You don’t know how easy you have it, Princess.” She spits the word out like bitter fruit. “You think Daddy was really on a business trip this weekend?” I clutch my covers and draw it over my lips. I am scared but I’m not allowed to show fear on my face. All I can do is nod. “Well, Daddy is cheating on me, Princess. Do you understand what that means?” “Yes. I’m sorry, Mommy.” We stare at each other in silence. Her eyes are my eyes. But I don’t see myself in them. “Get up and get ready. I’m dropping you off at Grandma’s house. I’m picking up Daddy from the airport.” She walks off and I cry into my favorite skirt, dampening the white fabric with my confusion. I take a shower and put on the dress Grandma made for me. It’s a combination of my favorite things. Frills, flowers, and a flowing skirt. I swirl in front of the mirror, savoring the wind that wisps around me. “Kristen, let’s go.” I follow Mommy out of the house. She’s washed her face and put on some lipstick. Her eyes are a little bit puffy but she is beautiful. It comforts my little mind as I put on my seatbelt in the backseat of her Camry. “I might leave him, you know.” “What do you mean, Mommy?” “I might divorce Daddy.” My eyes widen. I don’t like that word. A couple of kids in my class have parents who are divorced. They’re the ones who get F’s on their tests and shove the other kids too hard during recess. “Please don’t divorce him Mommy.” She keeps her eyes on the road. Her peach hands are white from clutching the steering wheel too hard. “If we do get a divorce, who would you rather live with?” “I don’t know.” “You might have to choose.” “I don’t want to choose.” She looks angry again. I look down at my hands. I feel guilty but I’m not sure why. I wish I knew the words to say to make her happy. We pull into Grandma’s driveway and her face transforms. Her eyes look brighter and her peach cheeks look like mine, with a healthy flush in the apples. We walk to the door and she grabs my hand. It feels like a stranger’s. Mommy isn’t too affectionate with me. She says I get enough kisses and hugs from Daddy. She says I need to learn independence. But when we’re around Grandma, that rule changes. I’m grateful for it. “Hi, Grandma!” I wrap my arms around her waist and squeeze. She always smells like cinnamon. “Hello, Mother.” She leans in and gives Grandma a kiss on the cheek. “Good morning, lovelies.” She brings us both into her arms and we hug. Grandma is cinnamon. Mommy is green apple. I am baby powder. We’re three generations in one embrace. This is what safety feels like. “I will be back soon Kristen, be good for Grandma, okay?” “Okay, Mommy. I love you.” “Love you too.” Grandma takes my hand and leads me into the kitchen. My eyes zone in on the flour, eggs, and sugar on the counter. I instantly know we are making cinnamon cookies. I look up at her and she winks at me. “Put on your apron.” The kitchen reminds me of this morning and the sight of Mommy crying. I sigh. “Are you okay, Krissy?” “Yes, Grandma.” “How is school?” “Good. I got picked to be in my school’s spelling bee.” “Wow! Good for you sweetheart! You’ve always been great with words.” I take out a mixing bowl from the cupboard. I love baking cookies with Grandma. But there’s sadness in me that sweet aromas cannot erase. “I don’t think so, Grandma.” “What is wrong Krissy?” I never cry in front of other people. Not even Grandma. But fat tears barrel down my cheeks again. “I think Mommy and Daddy are getting divorced.” Grandma looks surprised. Her eye furrow together and she looks at me. “Did your Mom tell you that?” “Yes. She was crying about it earlier. She said I might have to choose who to live with.” Grandma clicks her teeth and shakes her head. “She was just upset Krissy. I’m sure she doesn’t mean it.” I’m sobbing now. I feel foolish. Mommy would be disgusted if she saw me this way. “But Daddy is cheating on her. She said so herself.” Grandma leads me to the dining room table and we sit down. She cups her hand against my face. Her skin is warm and gentle. “How old are you Krissy?” “Eight.” “What is your favorite color?” “Pink.” “What is your favorite thing to do?” I sniff and look around. I spot a bottle of cinnamon on the oven. “Bake cookies with you.” Grandma smiles and kisses my forehead, just like Daddy does. “Then go and get the measuring cups out of the cupboard.” Grandma walks out of the kitchen. I stand tall on my toes and reach for the higher cupboard. I can barely touch it. I manage to open the door with one finger and edge the cup out. Grandma is the one who usually gets the cups. I smile. I’m growing. I sit back down at the table. I can hear Grandma’s faint voice in the living room. “She’s a child Maureen; she doesn’t need to know that about her father!” Grandma is talking on the phone. She’s trying to keep her voice low but I can hear the sharpness in her voice. For a moment, she sounds like Mommy when she’s talking to me. “You are a mother to an eight year old girl. Your daughter needs someone to look up to, not run away from.” I look at the clock above the refrigerator. It reads 11:47am. It’s not even the afternoon yet and it feels like my family is tearing apart. I walk over to Grandma. Her face is twisted into an expression I cannot understand. “Can I go out in the backyard?” I whisper. She nods silently. I can hear Mommy’s voice on the other end. She sounds sad. I walk outside. Grandma’s backyard is huge. There are tall coconut trees on the left side of the yard. They remind me of Grandpa. Sometimes, he would climb to the top. He would grip the limbs and branches, grunting for strength. It was the first time my neck ever craned that high. It was the first time he became a warrior in my eyes. He would reach to the top and look down and wink at me. I looked up at him with an awe only a five year old could feel. Then he would shake the tree. Bundles of coconuts tumbled to the ground. Some would crack open from the pressure while others would roll away until they reached my feet. “Pick up the one you want!” He would yell down to me from what I thought was a different world. I picked up the coconut and he climbed down the tree. He was swift and quick like a gorilla. He jumped down and walked over to me. “Watch this.” He grabbed a small hammer from his pocket. He lightly tapped the coconut with it three times. Then he crashed the hammer against it. The coconut split open into two even halves. Each part was filled with a pale liquid in the center. “You can drink it.” He brought the coconut to his lips and gulped the water down. I followed suit. The water was warm but sweet. I smiled at the syrupy flavor. “It tastes like candy, Grandpa.” “It is nature’s candy, Krissy. It is made from everything you see out here.” “So there were no people to make it?” “Nope, the Earth already knows how make it just perfect.” “So we’re in the middle of perfect right now?” “Yes, we are always in the middle of perfect, Krissy. Don’t ever forget that.” ¬¬¬¬¬¬I gaze up at the coconut tree. It is three years later and Grandpa is heaven. A more perfect place than where I am standing. A place that I cannot see, but I know is there. I see Mommy’s face in my mind. Her sadness scares me more than my nightmares of her in my sleep. She needs to be where I am standing. I walk across the grass. The green blades tickle my feet. There’s a hammock in the middle of the yard. I climb in and lay on my back. I close my eyes. I realize I’ve fallen asleep when I hear a voice. “Hi, Princess.” My dad is standing at the door. He is smiling but it’s not his usual smile. It looks forced and unnatural. I run over to him and he sweeps me up into his arms. “I missed you, Daddy. “ “I missed you too Princess.” I let go of him and we start walking around the spacious yard. I grab his hand. “Daddy, are you and Mommy getting divorced?” He squeezes my hand gently. “Mommy was just upset, Kristen. Grown-ups fight. Sometimes they get angry to the point where they say stuff they don’t mean.” “But you cheated on Mommy.” His face sets into stone. He shakes his head and stays quiet. “Do you still love her?” “Of course I do.” He says it quickly. It’s what I need to hear. We’re in front of Grandpa’s coconut tree, now. It has grown to the point where I can barely see the top. I smile. “Grandpa told me once, that when we’re outside, we’re always in the middle of perfect.” Daddy looks up at the tree and smiles too. “He told me that too, when I told him I was going to marry your Mom.” “Is that why you and Mommy had your wedding out here?” “Yes.” “How come you guys don’t come out here anymore?” “We don’t have time. We’re both too busy with work.” I look up at him. He looks tired. “Wait here.” I say. I run back into the house. Mommy and Grandma are sitting on the living room couch. My mother’s eyes are tears and sadness again. “Mommy, I think Daddy needs some help out there.” She looks pained. “What happened?” “Just go outside. He’s by Grandpa’s coconut tree.” She gets up and goes out into the backyard. I close the door behind her and watch. Mommy walks over to Daddy and they both stand in silence. Mommy starts crying again and she starts to yell at him. Her peach face turns red and she has transformed into a monster once again. Only this time, Daddy tries to hug her but she pushes him away. Grandma walks beside me and looks at them. She sighs. I lean against her. She kisses the top of my head. I look up at her. “Can we make chocolate chip cookies instead, Grandma?”

An Assault of Omnipresent Proportions

In confidence, the fourth hour of this blackened sky beckons to us with celestial witnesses who have gathered to assess our debauchery, and the wind builds courage to attempt a cease and desist of our sins, whips its chains of frozen contempt against our bare spines, it howls in disapproval as our session of damnation rides the waves of nirvana in blatant disobedience, and the stars are sad, their maternal glow retreats behind mocking clouds, those damn clouds, how they parody our union with their moist presence, their poker face changes cards from stark to lingering, as our skins grow wet from their intrusion, their laughter climaxes over us and we feel their release in translation of our own.

Electric Nostalgia

Nostalgia thumps in my chest
When I stroll by a kid who reads
a book made of light,
with a choice to zoom in
for a clearer view of the words
on its screen of rich gloss

One click bookmarks a page.
Another click whisks her away
To a social media heaven
Where instant messages
gather to reward her youth

Nostalgia flows through my thoughts
As I remember the time when books
were the sustenance for this kid

When libraries held the landmarks
for bliss to guide my triumphant flips
through the pages of my prize in spine

Nostalgia hits my heart with a beat
as I remember Saturday mornings spent
reading a dusty copy of The Secret Garden
Dusty books were the best to this kid

A young mind that conjured kings
and queens before me who read this book
then passed it down to their kids
who were princes and princesses

And in that book, I palmed the ashes
of their royalty which were now
the roots of my own glory

Nostalgia bows my head in honor
for the memories of a golden time
When imagination was a gift

A time when books to a child
meant a chance to explore
the mystique of literature

And zoom was a speed in which this kid’s
mind traveled across written worlds
composed in wondrous freedom

Nostalgia breathes in the air of innocence
I sigh with pride of having truly lived as a kid

Citrus

I went to the store today and bought a beer with lime
I don’t drink alcohol unless my throat swells
Then a vanilla whiskey will open me up just fine
But today I was in the clear of all common ails
I just needed a new destination for awhile
The place where boozers go to unwind
I could listen to music or walk a mile
But the bottle of brew suits me just fine
The lime is the perfect touch

The Anchor

Dualized by impermanent spectrums
in her mind's eye, an anchor whispers
the birth of freedom,in harmony with
grips of knowledge that beam through her amidst
the dense clouds of precarious rhythms

She knows the shadows cast behind her steps
will clear way for effervescent glory
that will sweep her off her feet in passion like
a lover's decadent kiss, she will rise

While knowing gravity beats in her heart
with faith that she lives in eternal light

Quiet Smoke

You call my name as you light a cigarette. I’m in another room. The scent of your intentions reaches me before your words do. Your air is bitter and earthy, like an old war veteran with lost limbs who tells tales of lost lives. You’re lost too. You say my name again. This time heat drifts in to collect me. A dry breath of weariness curls around my neck. It feels like you. The man you say you were. His air lingers around me like a silent apprentice. You said you drowned him three years ago, when you met me. Yet he is here. You’ve resurrected him. A current of sadness slips between my fingers. You yell my name. I try to respond but he won’t let me. He needs to tell his story. I breathe him in. My pores drink him in. My eyes cloud with his memories. He leads me to his childhood home. We walk in together. A man walks out in the same moment. A man with eyes of brown leather. They’re just like yours. Your eyes are mirrors of two generations. Yet yours glint with sunlight. This man walks away and he leaves the wind behind him. The air is his only presence. It cools my skin which has dampened with his tears. My eyes clear with knowing. I know you better in this quiet smoke. You yell my name. “I’m here.” That’s all you need to know.

She's Not There (a retelling of "Say Yes" by T.S. Eliot)

It was eight o’clock in the evening and they were watching television in Denise’s living room. She had stopped by in the afternoon to help Denise plan a surprise birthday party for her cousin Terrance. She didn’t have to be there. She didn’t know Terrance that well, but she knew how much Denise loved her cousin and she wanted to be a good friend to her. People had always told her she was the most decent person they knew and she agreed with them. She knew most women her age still didn’t know who they were, but she didn’t have that problem. She felt proud to show people the upstanding woman she was and planning this party was just another notch on her belt.
They sat on Denise’s sofa and chatted about the details of the party. Their conversation drifted through different topics before Denise confided to her that Terrance came out to her earlier that morning. Apparently, he met someone and had fallen in love with him, but was afraid to introduce the man to his family. Denise pondered whether or not he should come out to his family at all. She said that he shouldn’t have put himself in that position to begin with.
“What do you mean?” Denise asked
Denise had this habit of pursing her lips together until they jutted out, as if they were desperately trying to bar the words that were aching to escape from them. It usually meant that she was about to give someone a piece of her mind but wanted to warn them of the pending verbal disaster she was about to bestow upon their ears. She knew this look well but it never ceased her from speaking her mind, even as Denise’s eyes narrowed in synchronicity with her mouth.
“What do you mean?” Denise asks again and sat up in attention.
“Don’t get me wrong.” she said. “It’s not like I hate the gays or anything. I have had many conversations with their type and they seem like a perfectly nice bunch of people. Don’t look at me like I’m some awful homophobic idiot.
“I’m not looking at you that way.” she said. Denise turns her attention back to the television, her eyes attentive on the screen, but void of any emotion. “I just want to know what you meant by Terrance putting himself in “that position” in the first place.”

“Well, I just don’t see why he has to make a choice like that. There are plenty of women out there who will go for him. Maybe he’s had a couple of girlfriends in the past who have cheated on him but that’s not enough of a reason to switch teams like that. I mean, it’s kind of desperate don’t you think?” She really believed this. Every time she saw a gay couple on the street, she felt a lining of pity for them surrounding her disgust. “He obviously doesn’t know who he is yet. I wouldn’t worry too much about it if I were you. He just needs to find a good woman who knows who she is and she will straighten him out of this little phase.”
“You mean someone like you?” Denise asked.
“Well not me specifically, but yeah, he could use me as an example of the right woman.”
“So it doesn’t matter that he has found love right now.” she stated. “When he told me about his boyfriend, I could hear it in his voice, how happy he was. This guy truly cares for him and loves him. Terrance has the same feelings for him as well. Are you saying that they don’t deserve that right to love each other?” She had the remote control in her hand and was flipping through channels so fast, the television screen had turned into a rainbow of fluorescent colors.
“Here we go” she thought. She said “It’s not just my opinion. It’s God’s opinion as well. Do you really think he put us on Earth to love our own sex? It’s not just unnatural but it’s selfish. We’re meant to reproduce and bring children into these world, not become lovers with people who have the same organs as we do!”
“Organs.” Denise had stopped flipping through stations and was now setting her TiVo to record an upcoming documentary about Harold Camping. Her eyes had hardened into glass shells and the neon lights of the television were the only visible reflections in them. “You mean like hearts?” “The same ones that pump blood just like the rest of us?”
“Yeah.” she said. “I really do mean it.” “How can they equate what they’re doing with love? It’s an abomination to the word itself.” “They obviously have a mental disorder if they actually think what they’re doing is called love.”
“Mental disorder.” said Denise. “So you think they need to be medicated or institutionalized.”
“Jesus Christ, Denise!” she retorted, frustrated with her for patronizing her words, as though she was a special needs child. “Maybe, they do, or at least go to church. It’s just not right.” She snatched the remote out of Denise’s hands and changed the channel to one of those Evangelist Christian stations where the women hid their faces under three pounds of blue eyeliner and fuchsia lipstick.

Denise leaned back against the sofa, her expression dissolved into stone. She stared at the screen, chewing hard on her bottom lip. The room shifted into a silence where everything became still. She couldn’t even hear the sound of the crystal Swarovski clock ticking above the television. “Shit!” Denise yelled, and whipped her hand over her mouth. She pulled back her fingers and peered at them. She had bit her lip with so much force it was now bleeding.
“Wait here and I’ll get some ice.” she said. “Don’t go anywhere.” She got up and went to the kitchen and looked for a plastic bag. She opened the freezer and took out four ice cubes and placed them in the bag. She took some paper towels with her and went back to Denise. She had sprawled out on the couch with her eyes closed. “Scoot over a bit so I can see the cut up close.” Denise sat up and moved to further to the right. She sat down and peered closer at the cut. The blood had formed a single, thin layer over her bottom lip. “It’s not that bad.” she commented. “You won’t feel a thing in a few hours” “Just wrap the ice in the paper towels and leave it on your lip for a while so the pain will numb.” Denise nodded, still silent and closed her eyes again. Without thinking, she leaned over and kissed her lightly on her mouth. “Just stay and here rest for a little while. I will start making the invitations.” She got up again and went to the kitchen where she left her laptop. She powered it on and was about to sit down at the kitchen counter when Denise called out to her. She retreated back to the living room and saw Denise sitting up looking at her.

“So the kiss you just gave me right now wasn’t homosexual?”
“ Oh my God, Denise, are you fucking kidding me right now?”
“ No, I’m not, I’m pretty sure I just felt your lips on mine, did I not?”
“No-I mean yes- I kissed you but it was out of concern for you. You looked like you were in pain and I just wanted to know that you were okay. Lots of friends kiss their friends on their lips and it doesn’t mean anything. I mean, it was out of love and care but not like the way you are making it out to be.”
“But if I were a lesbian, then that kiss wouldn’t have happened?”
“If you were a lesbian, then we probably wouldn’t have been friends. I already told you that. You would have your own little group of lesbian friends to…do that with.” She went back to the kitchen and sat down in front of her laptop. It felt very hot to the touch but she realized her hands wore red splotches and were moist with sweat.. Denise had followed her into the kitchen and stood in front of her.

“Pretend that I am a lesbian, and somehow, in some way, we met somewhere and we became friends.”
She glared at Denise. She looked back at her with a glint in her eyes as if she knew something about her she didin’t. “This is ridiculous. If you were a lesbian you wouldn’t be here right now. You would probably be hiding in one of those gay rights clubs where the other misfits hang out.” “You and I would never have the opportunity to meet anyway.” She felt certain of this as she spoke. Denise was already a minority being a black woman and had faced obstacles for that very fact for a long time. There was no doubt she would be more of minority if she was a lesbian. She repeated the words a second time. “You would be hiding, Denise.”
“You might have a point in your twisted logic,” she said. “But hypothetically speaking…”
She sighed. She was glad that Denise finally understood a little bit of the message she was trying to put across, but she still felt a strange pressure in the center of her chest. “Hypothetically speaking?” she echoed.
“Hypothetically speaking, I’m a lesbian, but I’m still the same Denise you’ve known for 6 years, and we meet and we become friends. Would you want to be with me- I mean really be in a relationship- with me?”
She holds her breath and stands stills.
“Just be honest.” she said, the glint in her eyes growing at the same time as the smile on her bruised lips. “Would you love me?”
“I don’t know” she whispered.
“You’re not going to say yes. I can see it in your eyes. Your fear is too engraved in you to consider saying yes.”
“Well, I guess since you think you know me so well…”
“One word is all I need. A yes or a no.”
“Dammit Denise. No. Okay? The answer is no.”
Denise smiled. “I was right all along.” she said and walked back to the living room. She heard the television being turned on again and the sounds of MTV music videos playing filled the house. She started humming along to a Lady Gaga song and snapped her fingers along with the beat. She seemed completely oblivious to her presence and she knew she was exaggerating to prove to her that she wasn’t upset by her answer. Fifteen minutes went by with no word from Denise and she felt the pressure in her chest swell into pounding.
She couldn’t show that she was affected. She was too proud to shed that layer of herself. So she clicked through to her music library on her laptop and started playing her own music, turning the volume high and singing along to the words.
She got up and went to the fridge and loaded her arms with jars of peanut butter, jelly, and whole grain bread. It had been a staple in her and Denise’s friendship to spend hours in her backyard, gossiping and eating way too many peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. She busied herself with making one and proceeded to go outside to the backyard, armed with her laptop and PB&J sandwich. There was a hammock right in the center of the yard that always afforded a perfect view of the indigo sky, which was always brightened just enough with the sparkles of the celestial accents. As she laid back against the hammock, the pounding in her chest was still beating steadily, and a wave of shame flowed through her inner core. She had never engaged in a conversation like that with Denise in the six years they’d known each other. She had never had a talk like that with anyone in her life. She didn’t understand what the meaning of the prying and the questions were for. What was the point of bringing out these emotions if they served no purpose to either of them? Her eyes began to sting with the inkling tears at the corners of her lids. The pounding in her heart gave way into a deep gasp and she felt her chest tighten. She held her breath in for ten seconds and let it out with an extended whoooosh, and with that release came the tears, briny and full, like silver waves , crashing down her cheeks as she heaved the liquid crests of a truth she didn’t want to uncover. She let her tears flow freely, savoring the euphoric daze that accompanied each sob. Then she got her laptop and uneaten sandwich and went back in to the house.
The house was still bright when she returned. Denise was still on the couch, her eyes closed and her breathing was steady. She headed for the bathroom to wash her face. There were imprints on her cheeks from the tears. She splashed the cool water from the faucet on to her face, closing her pores and her frustration at herself. She dried her face thoroughly with the chartreuse towels until her skin returned to its normal esteem.
“Denise? I’m going to go now” She walked in the living room in front of her resting body. “I’m sorry for everything that I said this evening. I didn’t realize until now, why I said it and why I felt it.”

“Why?” Denise asked.

She was surprised. Whether it was because of the sleep still nesting in her lungs or something else, the vulnerability in Denise’s voice was a sound that she had never heard before until this evening. It triggered the cove in her chest where the pounding had begun to open up again. She knew she had to be honest this time. “I’m in love with you.” she whispered.
“I don’t think you know the meaning of that word, yet.” she said. “But you can leave. Take some time to yourself. I will talk to you tomorrow.”
She picked up her purse, her laptop and her car keys and walked to the front door. She raised her hand to the light switch that controlled the living room lamps and heard Denise cough.
“Leave the light on” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“The light doesn’t bother me. I feel comfortable with it around me.”
She pauses once again before she turns the door knob. She gazes at the black sky, where the stars have surrendered their good nights to the clouds. She steps outside into the dark. The world delivers its wind, cold and with authority and it peels the layer from her skin and whisks it away. She waits in the night, waiting to feel the bareness of her armor removed. She waits for the violation to seep into her pores. She waits and she feels unfamiliar to herself. She feels open.

Waiting

At half past ten, there is a woman who waits for me
in the dark, on a bench, at a bus stop, with midnight in her eyes
She waits for me to sit with her, and I can see the moon in them
waiting to travel south, she waits for them, honors them under the black
sky, and I sit next to her, and I wait with her, I wait for midnight to rise
inside my eyes, I wait for tomorrow to arrive, though my eyes remain
half past ten, and the woman waits next to me, waits for me.

Black Friday

Today was a consumer kind of day
I bought some recipes of ethnic rules
from a lady dressed in a white man’s shirt
Her black skin was like someone spilled night fall
in her pores to shadow her bruised hands
which shove labels of primitive concepts
of how to really be a black woman
In my own fingers I clutch these lessons
and nod twice in her direction
to let her know I purchased her message
She pierces me with dull pellets for eyes
to let me know that this is the real deal
“You ain’t gonna find nothing like this here!”
Points at me with the sass of Etta James
I need to add more flavor to my voice
Shake my hips when I walk by gentlemen
We’ll be stirring in bed when the moon comes
“A Phenomenal Woman you will be!”
Raises her hand like she’s reaching for God
With closed eyes she whispers a prayer for me
“Let this young black woman live in pure joy”
She sways from side to side under the clouds
I look at the labels I bought from her

Street Angel

The mystery of mania is how it hoists your mind up so far in the air that you have no choice but to believe you’re becoming something greater than yourself. That’s how I became a street angel that night.

“I’m leaving.” I said.

He doesn’t look at me. The bed creaks as I get up and slip on my shoes. It’s two o’ clock in the morning and we’re still awake. Another day started in an argument. We’ve been working on us for six years and it still doesn’t seem like we’ve got it right.

“Bye.” he replies.

He doesn’t know that he’s opened the door for me. It’s two o’ clock in the morning and I’m awake. More importantly I’m abuzz. I’m yearning for it. Life. It’s not just a feeling, it’s a seduction. It knows all my pressure points. It coaxes me out of bed away from my boyfriend. It’s waiting for me outside. He’s waiting to take me for a ride.

I walk out the front door. I hear him curse to himself. I know why he’s so worked up. He’s had a long day at work. He’s a masochist, that boyfriend of mine. Working twelve hour days at a law firm. He makes great money. Too bad he had to sell his soul in the process.

I don’t have that burden. Not right now. The 2 am feeling has just seized my own soul. The night is awake just for me. The cold wind slumbered to a sweet whisper just for me. Just enough to curl a tendril of black hair against my forehead. The street lights are doing wonders for my complexion. My skin is incandescent. Right now is the time to be alive. At no other time would anyone be able to describe their skin in this light.

I cross the street without looking left or right. It’s Tuesday morning and the city is still asleep. I’m a street angel. So I float instead of walk because right now I have wings. The night can vouch for me on this. The air hoists me into its arms and together we float ahead. This is the feeling that no one gets to share with me, just the wind and the air.

There’s a man at the corner of the road. He’s sad before I see his face. He’s hunched over in his fleece jacket with holes and rips. His head is grease and dirt with a bit of brown hair peeking through. He could be asleep. Yet, I want to speak to him. So I float down towards him. He looks up at me and I smile down at him.

“Good morning.” I greet him.

“Umm..Hello miss.”

I sit down next to him. The two am feeling is still flickering away. Maybe this guy could use some of my warmth.

“Do you like honesty sir?” I asked.

“Excuse me?” he responds.

“I think you can handle honesty. At first glance, some people might call you a bum.”

“I am a bum.” he said.

He may be right. Just a whiff of his breath makes me think he’s got beer for blood. It didn’t bother me though. He needed a friend. Everyone needs someone to help them smile once in a while.

“You’re not a bum. You’re a man. More importantly, you’re a person with a heart.”

He laughs. It’s just a drunken echo. He doesn’t even move.

“You one of them Jesus Loves You people?” he asks.

I laugh. It’s a reverberation that makes me shiver.

“No.” I said. “I’m a street angel.”

He looks at me with some semblance of life in his eyes. I’ve got his attention now.

“So you’re a hooker?” he asked.

I laugh again. It’s a joyous freedom for my lungs to expel air this way.

“No. I’m just alive right now. Living in the moment.” I nod at him.

“You’re sitting in the middle of the street talking to a bum and you think that’s living?” He chuckles.

“I thought I was a crazy coot. You’re giving me a run for my money, sweetheart.”

I look around. The wind has whisked away for now. It’s just me and this man in a newly chilled atmosphere.

“I’ve been sitting with you for almost ten minutes now and I’ve gotten you to laugh and smile more than once.”

“Why?” he asks. “What’s in it for you?”

“It’s the kind of stuff that keeps me alive.” I tell him.

He closes his eyes. I’ve lost him. His face is different though. A little bit lighter. A little bit freer.

The air helps me to my feet again and once again I am a two in the morning goddess. I drift along the empty sidewalks of sleeping buildings. I’m not looking for a destination. Street angels don’t need to be anywhere. They just need to keep moving. To leave their presence with the people they happen to meet. The night needs them. This night needed me.

There’s another man that I see across the street. He’s walking in the opposite direction. He’s young, like me and he looks like my boyfriend, just a little bit older. He stares at me in the most delicious way. I float over to him to share a bit of life.

“Hey.” I say with a smile.

He smiles at me. He’s a heavy lidded looker. I know what’s on his mind.

“Hey there yourself, beautiful.” he replies.

“What’s your story for this electric night?” I ask.

“I got kicked out by my wife.” He gestures to an apartment complex behind us.
I touch his shoulder. My hand is electric too. He has to be a part of this energy. A street angel never leaves behind a person in need of a little life.

“That’s a tough break.” I say. “You want to talk?”

His eyes start a journey. They travel down my neck, linger on my breasts and rest on my crotch. I stand still and wait for his answer.

“Anything but talking” he says. His words are almost a plea and his eyes confirm his weakness.

Gravity becomes real again though my feet remain a few inches above ground. I have a lover at home who wants my body and it is his to explore. But this man reminds me so much of my lover, it seems wrong to deny him such a simple pleasure. A street angel never leaves a person in need.

“You wanna go somewhere?” I ask him.

His eyes flicker on and a smile brightens his face.

“Sure.” he says. His voice is grateful. It erases the gravity that wants to form guilt in the center of my chest.

He takes my hand and we float together. In silence we drift to a park with beautiful oak trees and a single bench in the middle. We sit together and the street angel is in my head. I feel light headed with expectation.

“No talking.” he puts a finger to my lips.

He leans over and kisses me. His jaw is angular like my boyfriend’s. He’s got a strong bone structure. His lips are rough and soft at the same time. So much like my boyfriend’s. So I kiss him back. We’re just sensations. Touching and heat. I think he’s becoming an angel too. It feels right. So I reciprocate more by adding my tongue to his. There doesn’t need to be any explanations. Sometimes we just need someone to help us feel real.

We start a liquid dance. He nuzzles my neck and transfers his kisses to my collar bone. His tongue makes little circles and he marks it with a nibble. Clothes are drifting off layer by layer and it’s clear our bodies are about to become better acquainted. Gravity is pulsing in the center of my chest.

He is my electricity right now. His limbs are strong and remove my clothes with vigor. He needs this. I need electricity. It’s what keeps street angels alive. I mirror his movements to speed the shedding process. “Renewal.” I think to myself. “There’s nothing wrong with rejuvenating yourself.”

Our clothes have fallen into the dirt. We’re raising the temperatures of life. We’re man and woman in raw action. We’re creating synergy to send out to the night in waves. He honors his carnal ancestors with a primal growl. I honor the angel in me with feathery gasps of breath. Such a joyous way to expel air.

It’s over when it starts. The angel in me wouldn’t have it any other way. I have my boyfriend in bed, at home that waits for me. My street angel lover smiles at me. Satisfaction and gratitude alternate in his eyes as he catches his breath.

“Do you want me to call a taxi for you?” he asks.

I shake my head. A street angel never needs more than she can give.

“It’s okay.” I tell him. “I will be okay here.”

He drifts away in his own electricity. I think he took some of mine with him.

Gravity is beating full force in my chest now and I feel guilt.

I put on my clothes and reach into the back of my jeans. I pull out my cell phone. I call the home where my lover sleeps.

“Hello? Bree? Is that you?” he asks. His voice is electric too. Frantic with electricity.

“Hey babe.” I coo. I want this gravity to filter out of my heart.

“Dammit Bree, you need to start taking your medication. This bipolar thing is not a joke. You’re going to hurt yourself!” He sounds so angry. He really needs to cut back his hours at work.

“Can you pick me up babe? I’m at the park.” I ask.

“I’ll be right there. Do not move Bree.” He hangs up the phone.

I’m still floating but I’m skimming the ground now. I try to hold on to the street angel in me. She’s still awake but she’s humbled by infidelity. I close my eyes to put her to rest for now.

New Year's Eve '10

We walk because he tells me to. The night around here is on the brink of chilly; the wind, our quiet companion, nips at the fabric of our attire. I’m wearing black; he sports a plain white shirt. We’re in the Financial District, because this is where he wants us to be. There’s nowhere to look but up in this city. We turn the corner and there is a Four Seasons tower on our left side. We strain and crane our necks, but the top of the building remains invisible to my eyes. We turn another corner, and a City National Bank beckons over us, greets us with neon lights in aqua blue. I smile because he is smiling; grinning at the excess of this corporate entity.
“You don’t know nothin’ about dis shit right here.” he announces.
I nod my head, because it’s true. This is my first night in Brickell, the Manhattan of Miami, on the last night of the year.
“It’s another world.” I confirm.
We walk toward the Metro mover station and climb up the stairs to the platform. We reach where the air is a different story, with a wind that whips its authority against our bodies. He opens his arms and I press myself against his torso, because the heat that rises from his skin orders me to. He wraps his arms around me and in this moment, he is the only weather I can feel.
“Why are you with me?” I ask.
There is nowhere to look but up into his eyes. He looks down at me, without a smile on his lips but his brown eyes are ready to play.
“Cuz’ you need a real nigga to show you what real love is,” he replies without a pause.
I hug him, because this is true. We board the train along with seventy- five other passengers, packed in tight inside of the tiny compartment. We find an empty corner and resume our position. I press my head against his chest, but my limbs stiffen with the awareness of others’ eyes on us. I see a pale, White woman with platinum hair and a red Gucci mini dress staring me down. Her charcoal rimmed eyes twinkle with amusement as she alternates glances between me and Marcus. I watch as she gestures to her two friends, one wearing a gold Chanel skirt and the other glittering in silver Prada sequins. The trio then looks at us and proceeds to snicker, no doubt due to the sight of Marcus’ tall, rippled physique holding my short, full frame.
“Dumb bitches.” I mutter.
Marcus chuckles. “What you mean dumb bitches?” he asks.
“The plastic bitches on the other side of the train”
He glances over at them and they wave at him.
“Yeah they plastic alright, they look good though.”
My face flushes, but the brown in my complexion conceals my weakness.
“So why don’t you go over there and talk to them? They look like they’re ready to get on their knees for you.”
Marcus laughs again.
“Stop hatin’.” he says.
He bends his face down and I meet his lips with mine. My weakness blooms into his kiss and I clutch his broad frame to keep my composure.
“Okay.” I mumble.
We reach our destination at the Bayside station. The night’s air is thick with anticipation and festivity. We walk towards Bayfront Park along with hundreds of others, families and friends, different races, different faces, all gathered to celebrate the penultimate occasion.
“You alright baby?”
Marcus links his fingers through mine, and I squeeze his hand, because a part of me isn’t sure this is all just an illusion.
“More than alright. More like amazing.”
I smile because he is smiling; a carefree beam aimed right into my eyes. I allow my shoulders to go limp, and Marcus drapes his arm around them, automatic.
“It’s 11:45. What you wanna do before midnight rolls in?”
I look around the darkness, through the confetti of people adorned with brand name jewels. The ocean rolls its inky waves in our direction.
“Can we just go by the water and talk?” I ask.
We shuffle through the bundle of excited spectators, knocking over a few on the way. We reach the water and he smiles, because I smile, an involuntary response for whenever I’m near a design by Mother Nature.
“So you never had nothing like this before huh?” he asks.
“Never in my life. I’m usually by myself. I’ll go to parties but no matter where it is, I’m always drinking rum and coke alone by the time the clock strikes twelve.”
I laugh at the skill to even make my favorite drink sound pathetic. Marcus just stares at me, and his eyes drill through the uncertainty in mine.
“Why?” he asks.
I sigh and look away from him.
“I guess I’m just shy.” I replied.
Marcus cups my chin and turns my head towards his own.
“You ain’t shy, you wouldn’t be with me if you were shy, so don’t give me that bullshit. Tell me the truth.”
“I honestly don’t know, I guess I feel stronger when I’m alone. I feel like I won’t lose myself when I’m by myself. I’ve always been like that. Maybe because I grew up with an overprotective father, he raised me not to trust anyone to the point of paranoia. So I spend most of my time alone. It seems safer that way.”
I look at Marcus. He’s gazing into the black sea, with an unreadable expression on his face. “What you doin’ with me then? You already know I’m a go-getter, I’m on the move all day and I need a woman who can ride by my side and be my Bonnie, you understand?”
I laugh, but he doesn’t laugh with me.
“That’s enough of a reason for me.” I reply.
“I think that’s exactly what I need right now, to be spontaneous, I wanna be a ride or die chick.”
This time he laughs.
“Naw, sweetheart, you a square, and you will always be a square.”
He leans over and kisses the top of my head.
“Always.”
I glance at my cell phone.
11:58pm.
“It’s about that time.” I remark.
Marcus grabs my hand.
“We got four minutes to make some goals babe. We been chillin for a few months now and I’m seein some things in you that I like. But if you gonna be with me, you gonna be my woman. You ain’t Daddy’s little girl no more alright?”
I nod, because his expression tells me to.
“Are you ready to be my woman?”
11:59pm.
The ocean sweeps its brine over our skins in a cold mist. The countdown begins at ten seconds. I scan the crowd of chanting partiers, each wearing similar expressions of anticipation. I wait for the annual tears to sneak from eyes, but they are dry. I look back to Marcus. He doesn’t take his eyes off of me. “Six! Say yes. Five! I should say no. Four! But the way he’s looking at me is pure temptation. Three! Being safe hasn’t taken you anywhere, has it? Two! Say yes. One!
“Yes.”
The future is now; fireworks crackle and coat the sky in red and gold. Our lips meet in a kiss, and I wrap my arms around his neck, easy.
“Bang! Bang!” The moment breaks with the sound of gunshots and screams. A familiar cloud of dread spirals throughout my stomach.
“Babe, what’s happening?” I ask. Marcus reaches for my hand.
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s go.” he replies.
I follow his lead, because warmth is blooming around my heart, and it dilutes the fear. We walk until we’re inside the Metro mover once again. The train is empty and we lean against the railing, wrapped into each other, silent.
“We almost got shot didn’t we?” I asked.
Marcus chuckles. He brushes my hair away from my shoulders and kisses my cheek.
“You really got no business being out here at this time of night, with someone like me; if you really think we was about to get shot. Remind me to never take you around Overtown.”
We reach the Government Center and we walk out of the Metro mover, hand in hand. The building is bustling with people, mostly couples who are making their way towards the Metrorail; arms linked and hands molded together, mirroring ours. There’s a synchronicity in the air, as if the slight buzz from the florescent lights above our heads were intertwining our limbs for us tonight.
“What you thinkin’ about?” Marcus asks me as we board the escalator.
The flutter in my heart answers his question before I do.
“You,” I respond.
“You’re changin’ your mind about me already?” he asks.
The train is delayed when we reach the railway. We find an empty section and sit down. I lean against him, because although a half hour has already disappeared from 2011, the concept of time vanishes completely whenever I touch his skin.
“Yes.” I reply.
The train comes to life. “Good morning passengers,” the train conductor’s voice crackles through the speakers. “I wish you all a very safe and Happy New Year’s. Our next stop Northbound is Historic/Overtown Lyric Theater.”
“I didn’t expect to be with you like this,” I admit. “I thought we would just be a hook up and then a goodbye. But it’s been two months and we’re just beginning.”
The city zooms behind us in layers of fuchsia and turquoise lights and I look out the window in silence.
Marcus kisses my forehead with soft lips but his chest stiffens. I gaze into the eyes which have kept me warm all night; that were now edged in sharp onyx coals.
“Goodbye ain’t an option for us, do you understand?” he says.
His voice is even, but tight and I wonder if I said something to offend him.
“Yeah, babe, I understand.”
I smile up at him, in hopes of softening the sudden transformation in his demeanor.
“You are my woman now, do you hear me?”
The black coals glow and he glares at me, as if challenging me to a rebuttal.
“Yes, Marcus.” I reply.
I lift my chin up to kiss him but he pulls his face back, the coals still simmering between us.
“Babe, are you okay?” I ask.
Marcus doesn’t take his eyes away from mine. In the pit of my stomach, the nub of fear materializes and pulses in a faint rhythm.
“You are mine.” he echoes.
His voice is ice now, a sliver of frost that cuts the air between us.
“I am yours, Marcus.” I repeat.
“I’m the only nigga in your life from now on.” he orders.
“You’re the only man I want in my life.” I assure him.
The frigid barrier between us is still thick. It dulls my senses, films my eyes, seizes my nostrils, and coats my tongue.
“This must be what passion feels like.” I think to myself.
We are in a silent tug of war with our eyes. I trace the outline of his lips, which is set in stone to match his eyes. I follow the caramel colored veins running along the brawn of his arms. I take in the smooth exterior of his hands, but notice their firmness, as if blocks of concrete replaced the bones underneath their suppleness.
I sigh.
“Yet you can have any woman in the world. I still don’t understand what you see in me.” I remark.


The block of concrete connects to my cheek simultaneously as the last syllable escapes my lips. The force is surreal, and spits me back into reality. I taste metal in the corner of my jaw but the rich crimson aftermath is nowhere to be found. I am in limbo, the in between where science meets faith, and where the heart challenges logic. I stare into my lover’s eyes for the last time as a void.
There is anger.
There is fear.
There is life, and it melts into the glint that reflects every facet of light that surrounds us.
“Being safe has never taken you anywhere” My future is now.
I lean against Marcus, reborn. He is silent and his skin sears with desire and authenticity. The ice between us evaporates. I raise my lips to his to taste the nectar of his intentions.
The sting in my cheek reverberates throughout my face, like the ring of a bell in church.
“I’m not going anywhere without you.” I say, because faith tells me to.