Wicked Enchantment. Wanda Coleman
as i spew out my hatred. across the rug stamping angrily at
my absence from the nation’s tomes. he shifts his glasses uncomfortably
hands me a tissue for my tears, tells me he does not want me as a
patient. walks out. it’s cold on the leather
reality: me running into him a couple of
years later, after his nervous breakdown and my
divorce. lust like yesterday cops a feel of
my ass, and it’s to the motel for one of the good
old days. he’s trying to make it back to the top
and it’s my turn to do a fade
the apartment a fist closing round me. i go back to the streets, call on
a few friends and assure them i’m okay and no longer courting death.
didn’t
really need a doctor after all, now that i’ve finally found a decent job
The Woman and Her Thang
she kept it in a black green felt-lined box
liked to bring it out to show people, especially the men
she was sexually involved with
it was a creature she loved
sometimes when she was alone, she’d take it from its box
caress it gently, lay it on the bed, watch
it glide easily over the blanket
frequently she would feed it a mouse or small rabbit and watch
for days, until the lump in its torso dissolved
it was more than a pet
of course, she never saw herself in it
she felt she had so many more dimensions
she was warm and it was cold
people loved her but they were afraid of it
the only thing they shared was a blackness of skin
and a certain rhythmic motion
one day she was showing it to this man
a very special man
a man she wanted to fall in love with who
seemed to be able to love her, a man different from
the other black men she had known
and so she opened the black green felt box
reached in and took it out
gently she carried it over to the bed
where he lay naked and waiting
she showed it to him proudly
he was appalled, shocked, frightened
he jumped. he scared it.
it took a long time for that lump to go away
many times since she has considered getting rid of it
but after having invested so much time in the thang
she couldn’t bear to throw it away
a friend suggested she sell it
she’s into that process now.
Beaches. Why I Don’t Care for Them
associations: years of being ashamed/my sometimes
fat, ordinary body. years later shame passed
left a sad aftertaste. mama threatening to beat me if i got
my hair wet. curses as she brushes the sand out, “it’s gonna
break it off—it’s gonna ruin your scalp.”
or the tall blond haired gold/bronze-muscled
lifeguards who played with the little white ones but gawked
at us like we were lepers
sound. the water serpent’s breath: a depth as vast as my hatred
skin. my chocolate coating. the rash gone now
as a kid i couldn’t stand the drying effect water had
coming out wet, cracked and sore all over. one time
i caught a starfish, second summer after my divorce
“i’m not into beaches, or riding waves these days.” the only time
i like the beach is when it’s cold hostile and gray. i feel
kin to it then. or at night. when it speaks a somber tongue
only the enlightened perceive. when the ageless mouth joins
mine. when soft arms caress in timeworn gentleness. or the
poor man’s beach, where bodies echo my chromatic scheme
from just-can-pass to pitch-tar-black. at home among fleshy
rumps, tummys, thighs,
breasts jiggling a freedom our hearts will never know
sound. eternal splash. a depth as vast as my love
beached. i turn into the blanket. urge him to fuck me. he
thinks it’s corny. i get mad. i get up, stomp away, kicking
the sand . . . while he was with her i was on
the beach wishing he was with me . . . at the beach
aware of his hands urgent to touch, take me before we
return to work/our separate lives . . . here. i watch
you swim into the crest. i’d rather sit and sip wine
enjoy the wind than swim or wade. i smile secretly
at thinly clad slappers-on of lotion/a potion to ward off
skin cancer. in my fantasy i would challenge the ocean
a feminist ahab stalking the great white whale. harpoon it
and ride down down to meet davy jones, content
for my america dies with me
sound. swoosh swoosh the scythe. a depth as vast as my vision
i could live by it, pacifica. learn to like it. now that you’re
with me i might even let you teach me how to tread water
I Live for My Car
can’t let go of it. to live is to drive. to have it function
smooth, flawless. to rise with morning and have it start
i pray to the mechanic for heat again and air conditioning
when i meet people i used to know i’m glad to see them until
i remember what i’m driving and am afraid they’ll go outside and
see me climb into that struggle buggy and laugh deep long loud
i’ve become very proficient at keeping my car running. i
visit service stations and repair shops often which is why
i haven’t a coat to wear or nice clothes or enough money each
month to pay the rent. i don’t like my car to be dirty. i spend
saturday mornings