My Love David at PHOOT CAMP 2014
These things happen. One day you run everything, and the next day you run like a dog.
Hunter S. Thompson
he would have been 77 today
"Let not your heart be troubled," the wise man said
"for love is stronger than you know."
I was sixteen, seeking lessons in rainbow posters,
love was stronger than I knew. So was fear.
So was sorrow that hauls a heart’s bellrope
again and again. So were the bonds
in a drop of water; so was the force of gravity
leading the drop from eye to mouth
or pulling a car with bad brakes downhill
or abetting a body stood on a chair
with a rope around its neck.
So was the force of life in microscopic creatures
deep in solid Antarctic lakes,
or boiled in acid on the Pacific floor,
or duking it out between sickness and health
in a human intestine. And the life
in the devious roots of dandelions,
an elephant’s trunk, or a flea’s hind legs.
Stronger than I knew was the desire sometimes
to move quietly through harmless days,
eating from a plate, buying stamps or a toothbrush.
Which was more remarkable,
the breadth and depth of my ignorance,
or the strength in the arms of a marvelous squid
that hung in my vision, uncurled as if
about to dissolve, then whipped one length
around my wrist, preventing me
from running away, preventing me
from rising to breathe,
reminding me of love?
valentine for Sally Hemings by Sojourner Ahebee
there’s a dead jefferson in every black girl’s belly,
an unknown hunger for something stolen.
i found a poem in these parts, in the belly of a black girl.
i was told to look in the garage,
into the person i almost liked,
at the bottom of an odd blue sock buried
in my dresser drawer:
the hiding places of my life.
oh, but if you only knew
the way I wanted to love the dead president,
rescue him from the depths of a stomach,
feed him the warm soil from a Virginia plantation,
feed him pages from my history books,
heavy with lies.
but then i heard Sally scream,
and wondered what she’d think of me,
i heard Sally scream
and wondered what all the black girls
with bloated bellies would think of me
in my confusion:
the way i mistaked his breath, smelling of lavender and france,
when this scent was made of more potent stuff,
of a black girl’s blood against white sheets.
i went looking for a poem
in the darkness,
a love poem for Sally,
a dead man haunting the hallways
of a breaking girl.
An instagram that questions skinny girls holding calorie high food “You Did Not Eat That”