love, z.s.

{reference points}

there never would have been enough strength. what you needed me to do, be, threatened to break my back.

so i walked.
walked fast, far and long.

i found a place for myself.
a small, simple, pretty place i love.

i had no choice but to make it home.

i found other ways to love.  but none that awakened. none that stayed weekends, cooked breakfast, or drew baths.  none that fed me soup or wrapped me in blankets when the chill came.  none that laughed, cried or moaned with me.  none that kissed me in the rain.

i loved in cool, collected ways.  ways that earned gratitude, friendships and laughter.  ways that danced, sung, prayed sometimes.  it was not passion, but it was often joy.  most of the time, this was enough, this open, public love.

most.

i manage.
i survive.

my heart is a kind of desert, one that remembers itself as rainforest: lush and fertile, plush with brilliant flowers and technicolor birds.

yes, there is beauty in the desert: a stark palette of necessity, utility.  the sky is still its blue; some cacti flower.

life just under the surface...love buried in sand full of dormant seeds and preserved pollen.  the arid blessing that maintained the bodies of ancestors for thousands of years.  a whispering love, praying the wind will serve as audience.  the occasional, elusive oasis fed by hidden waters.

it is there.

it is still deciding what to be.

brash as an explorer, excavating buried realms?
skittish as a lizard?

it survives, though.

like so many things that shouldn't, but do...it survives.

because it is, i am.

and i go on.

in my little home
in the desert

with
a love
that
awaits
a monsoon.

come, dambala...

mama nina
workin the ancestral antenna

givin the downpressor
somethin he can feel
in the heart and soul
he act like he ain't got

...til he gets where he's goin.

you slavers will know
what it's like to be a slave...



 

soft

we tend to know when our babies ain't made for this world.

from mother mary to mama cissy there have been prayers for understanding, time...

but sometimes it's real from the first.

they too soft.
too good.
too sweet.
too loving.

baby smiles and childish giggles
clouded with worry, concern.

no babies
are made to fight machines
and survive

black babies are no different.

...but we are expected to be.
as if our rattles are made of steel
and we teethe on granite pebbles.

for those of beauty
taken under
and torn asunder...

basquiat
donnie
'trane
nippy
phyllis

& the unnamed
and unclaimed
of the streets
'hoods
and barrios:

for your sake,

may we heal
and know care;

nurture
and know love;

listen
and find peace.

void 2

every day
without touch
i feel the vault door
creak closer to closing...

{part 1}

skittles & iced tea

angel-faced
brown boy
not even as big as the other kids

but still a threat to someone...

i can't say i'm trying to make sense of the incident.
i know why it makes "sense". 

if i'm trying to make sense of anything,
it's why we've come this far
to learn so little.

i've spent so much time
trying to get the black men in my presence to relax
even when i know why they can't.

stories like this unravel all my weaving.

i suppose we can only do
what we can
where we can.

pray.

hope for the best.

maybe.

maybe more...

victory

lately, there have been many battles.

it's been a long time since i've been this weary.

it's also been a long time since i've felt this strong.

i am resting. building. learning. stretching.

even through tears.

i am the tiger's daughter,
newly named for a nubian lioness.

i know how to rest in the high grass

and wait.

but hunger is a compelling force.

when the time's right
i will pounce
and feast.

expect me.

a prayer to the saint of the brokenhearted...

saint mary magdalene...you heard from the loving lips of your beloved that your many challenges were forgiven because you loved much...

pour out your love on my behalf...your cleansing tears won for you the pardon of lessons learned and the vision of your risen beloved on the horizon.

surely, dear saint, whose love was refused nothing on earth, will graciously replenish us with those blessings, for which i implore your prayers.

ase.

four months ago...

...i wrote this:

some days, i still feel really ugly.

and i don't really know what to do about it.

i don't look at people much anyway, but on days like this, i don't look at all; i can't stand to see myself in their eyes. mirrors are impossible. every compliment is a lie.

i go between acute pain and consummate numbness.  neither allows me to hold my head up any higher...

i can feel the truth fighting with the lies. it makes me tired.
all i want to do is rest...stop the warring factions in my mind...

then, the light surrounds me...i lean into it, appreciating the warmth even as i feel i don't deserve it. my shoulders ache, my stomach rebels.

if i could only stop eating, fade away to nothing... a quiet, soft leaving...

but i can't. if i've gotten this far without hurting myself, i won't start now.

i may never get on the list of the world's most beautiful people, but i'm not bad. i know that. just like i know i'm not worthless.  except for days when i turn into a black hole of need...

i'll never be loved enough, held long enough, kissed deeply enough. nothing takes the emptiness away, but i'll lure you in and let you try. i'm damaged goods...not fit for a trash heap. but since you think i'm cute, come here for a minute and show me...show me...i demand to be filled. appeased. eased. shown some mercy.  i'll laugh at you for trying...but try anyway.

this isn't me all the time. or even most of the time. just sometimes....and, now, there are years between the sometimes.

still, when it comes, it floods me--the emptiness. if i can, i fill it with sweet things. but there are times the bitterness wins out.  of course there's also the bittersweet...the mish moshed yin yang of negatively positive thoughts...

i'm posting it now because while i cannot truthfully claim i'll never feel this way again, i do feel that these moments are destined to be few and even farther between.

this will serve as my reminder.

healing is always waiting to happen.

lament letter

there is nothing like the feeling of being separated from you. nothing.

it begins with mental images. then slowly, deliberately, the sensation moves into my heart, where it causes a very specific ache.

the dull throb of a cut with just a bit of dirt rubbed in.

and while i ache, the memories come...

i recently spent the better part of a day feeling like my face was buried in your chest--you know that spot my forehead touches if i'm hugging you with no shoes on? there. i was right there. your arms lingered on my waist, resting on my hips.

there is no rhyme or reason to these flashbacks. they simply visit, merciless, immune to repeated choruses of "we're not speaking anymore".

we're not speaking
any
more...
again.

so i'm left here, alone. trying to scribble and type the ache away, praying for dreams and asking them not to actually come...because i'll only miss you more if i see you there.

i can't help wanting to see you.

i know. this is messy. it's been messy between us for a long time.

what i know:

1. we are mirror images of each other, reflecting negative and positive polarities depending on varied situations and life stages.

2. we will always love each other.

3. we will seek each other out.

some days the knowing is enough.

the days i write / cry / scream / sulk are the days it isn't.

i miss you. so much.

overdrawn {napowrimo '11, #5}

i go insane / crazy sometimes / tryin to keep you from losin your mind...

my love
has never saved you
from yourself.

i gave up the saving
but never the loving.

open your eyes / see what's in front of your face / save me my...

save me...
just save...me.
forget about the tears.

i've already shed
an ocean's worth,
and i'm not done.

i shoulda
been bought stock
in kleenex
foolin wit yo ass...

was i a fool?

will we ever
get this right,
or are we destined
to silently scream
into magic mirrors,
praying one day
we won't hear each other

...knowing
we always will?

save me my...


{*italicized lyrics from maxwell's "fistful of tears"}

forge

for dae

within the pain is a small pearl of pleasure.

the defiant measure of, "you will not kill me."

the sweet, salty ache
of lemon on a paper cut;
a stinging, biting healing.

the ability to laugh.
deep, belly laughs.

the smug chuckle of the harlot after a lashing from the wife.
the snicker of the Goddess before she moved underground.
the maniacal cackle in the midst of a gut wrenching cry.

that is the jewel i am creating
deep down in the center of myself.

sustenance & starvation

currently sustaining:

the moon
sleep
this
this
and this.

i am particularly drawn to the story of golden hair...

Golden Hair was her name; a woman so beautiful of soul and so gifted of spirit, with such a lovely singing voice, that all the villagers wanted to be near her, and all wanted to be like her. No one gathered to her out of deference, but out of true love. And that was returned to them by her a thousand fold.

Whereby some in the village were always pointing fingers at whomever they thought were sinners, she gave love and encouragement to the goodness in all, including those designated by scowlers as “sinners.” Her way of being was to lead by singing of the ways of love, and by giving others time enough and reason to grow and develop and learn, through errors and through inspirations, both.

But a giant of a brute saw her lovely golden hair, heard her lovely singing, and noted her beautiful hands that wove cloth so fine it could be passed through a golden ring with ease, and he coveted her -- not just her body, but her mind, her spirit, her very soul for it was so filled with life and vision and love. In contrast, he had made his life self-important, darkened and harsh. He was given to punitive judgment, and he wanted to somehow devour the golden haired woman, as though by so doing, he could somehow take on her light inside his own dimmed self.

And so he courted her, but she refused, preferring to follow her own visions of weaving and being, of ministering to the people who flocked to her to just be near and hear her songs.

The brute became wildly jealous of the love others had so easily for this woman, for no one cared for his stern visage. He became enraged. Who did this woman think she was to turn him down, he who had pillaged gold and jewels unlawfully from others, he who lived in splendor but surrounded by a sterile land, he who was the biggest condemner, criticizer and fault finder in the valley. Shaming and blaming, blaming and shaming, those were his power madnesses.

And so, he laid in wait for her one night, and when she passed by alone on the road, he sprang out and killed her. Down to the road she fell, her blood soaking into the earth. He dragged her body into the forest and there grunting with sweat, buried her body, believing this would hide his crime.

The villagers grieved terribly, but as time went on, an uncanny event occurred: her golden hair continued to grow in the grave. It grew in the soil of the forest, a small field of golden reeds swaying in the dappled light and singing ever so softly in the wind. Upward and upward it grew until it pierced the earth overhead.

One day, along the road came women and men musicians. Upon seeing the golden reeds swaying near the road, they tramped into the forest and cut the beautiful reeds and fashioned them for pipes.

Thinking how fine a music these unusual reeds would make, they tied them together with raffia and cut their stops, but when they lifted the flutes to their lips, the oddest song came forth, the same song for each of the pipes and the only song the pipes would play, a song that told over and over again who had killed Golden Hair and why.

The brute and his horrible deed were revealed. And the villagers, now seeing the brute down to his cunning and rotten core, shut the brute away and gave away all his ill-made booty.

In our family, the old people say the only song the golden reeds would play, went something like this, my translation of a translation from the Magyar:

Here I am, woman golden hair,
killed by a brute who gave no care.

Lonely hatred is more base than lust.
And so he killed to still my holiness.

But kill me once
and 10 will rise to ring,
for I am not the singer of the song
I am the song the Singer sings.

it makes me think of how i was "killed".

how he always praised my wonders while remaining unable to hold, love or care for me properly...unconsciously draining my light, my love.

unlike golden hair, i was not content to remain alone. i wanted to love him.

he wasn't as obvious as the brute. i thought he was safe...

now, i am here.

in this moment, i am acutely aware of my bruises and scars. aware of my loss of faith.

i will never be who i was before the pain.

but i can emerge anew.

some days i know what that looks like...or at least what i want it to look like.

other days, i have no idea.

28th day

the blood
is speaking...

the blood
is speaking...
preaching around my shame,
exposing what i refuse to admit;
inciting me to pray
for a love i desire
but don't believe i'll ever have

because that purity is gone
forever
and
i can't unbreak my heart
can't undo
what he's done
or erase the mistakes
of the other
i am forever unlovable
irredeemable
in the eyes
of any man;
too strong
a fortress...

i don't dare
dream those drams,
voice those incantations

even when i know
can't is the worst
four letter word
stealin' my power,
untyin' my gris gris...

i know it.

the blood
pools into a garnet mirror
forcing me to face my true need,
fk what i settle for.

instructing me
to train my thoughts,
rearrange the soul-ache;
dig into my heart,
massage it with my own hands.

i know
i know

i
know
i have to stop this train
before it wrecks itself.

the blood is telling me
to let go
turn my fears into swords
pierce my heart and
let the bad blood out
so the golden light
of Her mantle can enter 
fresh from the deep, dark knowing.

mama audre told us about that knowing,
put the blood on the page

and mine,
like hers,
pulses in my ears,
understanding
my need for truth
trumps the egotistical denials
and petty concerns...

knows
i'm bigger than any fear

so,
it wades
through the bullshit
stuns me into stillness
and forces me
to listen.

the once in awhile

most days, i don't mind being single.
it's not something i think about a whole lot. 

but when i have a bad day--
the kind you can't plan for, 
days that make you want to run and hide,
or stress you out...
the ones that dredge up the bad memories
or ugly habits...

those are the days i wish
i had someone i could look at
and think,
you know what? fuck it. i've got you.
and you've got me.

those are the days it hurts.

girl talk {a monologue}

{TRIGGER WARNING - the piece that follows contains descriptions of sexual coercion, harsh language.}

the interview {a monologue}

{TRIGGER WARNING - the piece that follows contains descriptions of molestation/rape/incest and harsh language.}

questions: a drumchant

who listens
when brown girls cry?

who loves them
when they're lonely?

who offers sweet smiles
on days they don't feel pretty?

who understands
brown girl pain--
the special moments
the breakdowns
before the breakthroughs?

who walks the road
to their recovery
with them?
do we deserve
emotional pit crews
trained in instant repair?

who knows
what's wrong
before we reveal the frown?

who listens...
who loves...
who offers...
who understands...
who walks...
who knows...

one

one dream
one on-time understanding
one full week together
one song
one ritual
one flu-ridden hand held

one thing to hold
one something to grasp
one special birthday gift

one piece of evidence
that you were ever even here at all...
...any one
would have made us seem real,
made the pain worthwhile.

without it
i'm just crying over spilled love
and unsprouted seeds...

void

worse than the broken heart
and the disappointment
is the emptiness.

the hole left in my heart,
deepened by frustrated repetition,
missed opportunities,
and acute aching; knowing
that it wasn't supposed to happen this way.

my heart despises this
as nature abhors a vacuum.

it begs,
pleads,
stands there staring.

i have nothing for it.

no matter how beautifully i manage it,
this emptiness is not the void of zen-ed out peace
nor the black primordial ooze of creation.

it is lovespace
that cannot fill itself.

it can only wait...

commute

as i drove
the sun kissed my left cheek

smiled sadly.

thought about our ruins
the baby that didn't stay...

freedom.

the reasons why the season means so much
and so little.

cried.
moved on.
pushed through.

again.