You know she bad.

Hanging on in spite-

of the many years she’s held hallow in her mind.

Crazy, ain’t the war?

Why your body bent backwards?

Why you let your ship cave in.

Ain’t nobody worth the manipulation.

Of yourself.

Of the thing God hold dear.

Dearly, beloved-

We are gathered here

in spite of.

This is not the time for burial.

Unless it’s too heavy.

Baby,

Go on and sand it out.

Lay under low beams

and let God shine.

Ain’t no yelling to do.

We know-

God been here on you.

He been waiting on you to confess

that you weren’t the best swimmer.

That at times,

you still need to be pushed up to the table.

Oh baby-

We know.

Come here-

Take this butter.

And treat yourself well.

I’ve written poems for you that you’ll never read.

Just know-

That you got a whole book dedicated to you.

The next time you feel me inside you.

You’ll be disciple.

May you find God folded in that ihop apron

lil lady brown glued to that tar

heavy laden thighs

I know-

You cried wolf in the middle of a dance floor in ’86 before.

I know it took many sessions to find that rhythm.

How you say your name again?

A-lan

like the car.

Just sinned in 92.

I ain’t eat the fruit.

I did what God said,

he don’t want you to know the evil.

Why you bleeding then?

I ain’t eat that fruit.

I kissed him.

Stuck it down his throat.

He told me he could eat things whole.

I laughed back hard.

“I dare you. I dare you to eat the apple whole.”

He gulped. I saw God walking on H St.

He looked me full figured.

He said

“You tasted it didn’t you?”

I should have known.

Guilty by association.

Ain’t that Mary weeping by the willow?

Why she bent like that.

Stomach half full.

Grabbing her ankles.

Waiting.

I know ain’t no room in there.

Mangers can be found in simple city.

Full and bright eyed babies

who don’t know no better.

Guilty by association.

I know praying mantis just want silence.

We can’t promise them that.

Closet prayers.

Attic believers.

I need something off your plate.

God-

Sitting Indian styled in the middle of this living room.

You gotta look deep in the debris.

He going build you something new.

I promise-

It’ll be like it’s always been written.

As a little girl, I was always taught to look for your “soulmate”.

I realized one evening. Back straight on a feild of grass.

Sun rays soaking in me.

That, I want my sunmate.

Someone who feels us in a space.

And divides it.

Takes the movement with them.

We’ll have a world soon.

i can feel it widening.

The map of it all.

The way that your sunmate looks at you.

Coated. Drenched in old prayer.

They hand you a glass of water.

And

A reminder.

And tell you “Feed yourself.”

That’s from the body.

& the heart.

The way your sunmate holds you at the end of the day.

Is a simple ode to the way your mind has held them

all last eternity.

Cause we’ve done these things before.

Somewhere caught up

in the child of it all.

I have seen my sunmate in different sandboxes.

Still.

drying.

One year, we may have been praying mantis.

I had a stuttering problem.

But, only your sunmate can understand your broken.

Your sunmate

is a moment

on top of

things that belong to you.

but, your

sunmate belongs to the sky

and thank God,

you have access.

I’ve sat Indian styled in someone’s chest and wondered “why couldn’t it just be me?”

shotgun waterbeds on leather couches

for men who’ll never know the difference

between fighting and trying.

I think I’ve pushed more bodies out of this cobwebbed heart.

Than most.

I think-

this time,

I’ve lost the best design.

for little brown lady babies

who often trip over things like potholes in the flesh

of men who want to love them

honest

true

just with conditions. We’re God like.

God got an image that they hold over our heads.

and candy coated raindrops hit you too hard in the eye.

Sometimes, you can’t see what’s in front of you.

Sugar-sweet.

Things like hangers in the compound sentences of a 7 month old.

He got this smile that make language seem too complicated.

For no reason.

Like, a woman who rolls over to a honey coated son

or a man who searches for love

in a thick lil wrapped hair joint from S.E.

She got some things that still sit in her chest,

so she need some proof.

Some water thing that feels like a low income hallway.

That she can build up.

But, push away before the furs come.

Where you hiding young boy?

Inbetween this skirt and the flashlight.

God don’t hide from those that look.

He just blind to the paranoid.

I know.

I’ve blew fog in mirrors and drew myself in it.

That’s a complicated language.

Just look.

Mistrust is a pretty word for no faith.

I know.

My ears been listening to things far more

extravagant than last night’s

hymnal, but for some reason.

It ain’t touched me the same.