air miles

i have travelled

6,373 miles to return to

me. 

with each mile i am unfolding

discarding petals of a dewy, fleshy

pink. 

with each breath another

falls away to reveal

my blackness -

rounded, smoothed glistening.

new to each of you who only

knew the passivity of my youth
which wrapped what you could not understand
in pink roses.

barbie always wore pink. 

with each mile 'i' am blooming,

breathing,

beating new life into the 

hidden selves that lay buried somewhere

deep within towers of ivory

and all the ways you wanted me

to be. 

don't be surprised, that i emerge fucking angry

doused in kerosene and rage, 

i dare you to strike your match first. 

i didn't know what else to be

no one taught me what black even means - and so i grew fearful 

of myself.

your lessons spread like venom, causing me to default. 

wait - apparently it's actually my fault, you said i read the signs wrong. 

 forgive me, i must have been looking in all the wrong places - but six feet tall advertisements 

adorning sky scrapers, really do catch your eye

and they don't flash faces of my own mahogany design.
except for maybe, beyonce.

beyonce sure does wear a lot of pink. like barbie did.

in case you were curious, 

it may only take you 6,373 miles.

this is the distance of a journey inward
through the wormhole of my soul

where i deleted from memory, every line i was fed.
and all the things that i read wrong.

all of this, to introduce myself to me.

hello. see?  i am black, i am beauty.

and i hate pink. 

we didn't even say goodbye

alone. alone.
(alone?)
there is only silence,all around you
that cannot be drowned out by rooms of vinyl.
and the aching of your hand - you will have to fill it with other things
(a pen perhaps? wine and whiskey)
alone. (alone?)
there is no whisper of the beloved
there is a bed, with that annoying cold part
where your body cannot warm (i can't be all places at once !)
no glancing up across tables
no dancing in kitchens
no beauty from the shared mundane -

don't you know the simplest chore becomes fodder for joy
in the company of  an 'other'.
(but, there is no 'other')
alone. (alone)

LSE for Gaza

I am lost in the trails of my
self indulgence.
meandering through darkened streets,
just so tears can dampen something different
today, let them beat the pavement instead
and mingle with the rain

my un-earned malaise is not as noticeable then.
and i can lean against lampposts and watch the pitter patter
of my past
slip and slide down cheeks and bounce of the curve of my chest
to connect with the ground. it accepts my pain when
others wont.

i'm not worried - my secrets are safe in a city of millions
not a single soul will notice the tears of
one little black girl
if she cries softly enough.
we're all too busy, buzzing, busing ourselves around
and shuffling past each others pain.

so, i can cry in peace
until
my wandering eyes and heart come across
vigils from people who still believe in things like
the masses
and the power of our message
and instead of tears, the're dripping pools of wax at the feet of
ivory towers -
LSE for gaza - counting bodies and raising fists.

so i pause. and stand
let myself feel what that 'feels' like,
passion. hope.
and for now at least, it feels like i'm crying about something real.
tears for a world
doomed to disaster
destined to demise

its almost the end of days they say...
and these disasters remind me it could be true.
i think we should be holding hands.
my eyes seek to connect with who i who i once was -
i am reaching out 
the cold is all that wraps round my fingers
working its way into spaces between bones.
and the empty space reminds me that i am still
a little black girl in a big city
where even in its practice of  humanness,
has forgotten our purpose.

a case of you

I can still remember
when your arms were branches
that rooted me to
places that i forgot
mattered.
                                            you rooted me to

my
matter -
pink and grey and green - colours of
                                     
                                            the earth and sky and all that lies in between.


is this what love is?
                                       
                                           do you still think of me?


It's sunday and i am lying in pools of my tears and
can recall when
                                         

                                            you were the gates to
such floods
of time
and
                                            truth and honesty.
                                         
honestly?

                                         i still fucking love you.

dreams of my father

Is it because
it's always 'you'?
there is something in a call
this time of night,
its muddled.
not quite right and reminiscent of
a heavy heaving white rum lined
breath
laughter and a smack "lookin' like you're getting fat"
strange ways of showing love.

and now some 30 summers have passed.
and heavy, heaving gin soaked kisses
leave me moist and anticipating
love?
i am recognising self in other - joy decomposes
into fear
am i recognising him in you?
the worst part is, he's within me too.
pause, please pause -
move no further.
I need to know
if is this is the actual reason why i
will 'bravely' defy all of logic's plans
and chart this route, to unveil to you
life and love and the liberty that comes,
from breathing in the good of this world?

because in the end, she never rescued him...

i am the same. 30 summers, not a thing has changed.
she is me
he is you.
making this something we definitely should not even
attempt to do.
right?
for at least, those 30 summers taught me one thing as truth:
one-sided love is not the kind of magic that can undo
broken men.

but if that's true, why, am i still here?
maybe, this time

it's just about
me and you
and shared miseries;
are the only kind of magic that matters
if it's the stuff that leads us to truth.

fat enlightenment

i have forgiven you.

i see that you are thick, with worry
worry is often soft in the middle - from the cupcakes.
i know they bring you such joy, that beautiful
escapism.
just enjoy the damn cake.

i forgive the roundess of your thighs
the pressing of strong calves into too tight jeans
i know that they do the work to help me reach those books
high beyond the reach of all 5'3 of me.
so perhaps it's an apporpriate price to pay
a brilliant mind earned in exchange for an ass that extends for 'days'.
besides,
sitting on bare bones hurt.

i have forgiven you.
you don't fit, and yet
you work.
you are soft, without weakness.
and warm.
because fat maintains body temperatures,
and means you wont freeze during winter storms.

i forgive you. you beautiful round thing.
so now, will you please, forgive me?
for all the work i did to change you?
when i ignored your magic
pumping you full of poisons and poitions
grinding you into oceans of
powders and protiens
to make you 'better'. thinner.
mostly,weaker.
whiter.

will you forgive the unkindess of my eyes
they couldn't see the beauty of rounded curves
and shapes that come from mother earth
you are the earth. brown and breathing.

will you forgive me?
i just... didn't know any better.

a reason for having children

"i spy with my little eye" - she says,
and i smile.
every day i spy something new,
when i play these games with you
through eyes that once were lost to me
cold and grey and hardened by
years of dreaming
and hours of praying
and millienia of loving - to no end.

but with you,
clouds are new.
buildings are mountains and bridges are
magic.

"i spy with my little eye"- she says
she's laughing and it's ringing like
churchbells on wedding days.
her hand is small, and warm and suddenly,
all the science
falls away, and only 'god' remains.

"i didn't even SEE that tree !"
god. i do love when we play
and your joy somehow sets
'me' free.