I often hear that question from excited faces
who have just learned of the massacring of an entire country.
They point out something Obama said about regret in an article — they shake their heads wanting me to acknowledge that they now realize he is not perfect.
They reference an HBO documentary — because that makes it real.
It’s really depressing stuff, is what they’ll usually follow the question
with then unveil their expertise.
Syria is not a fad.
It’s not a topic for you to pick up like a handbag as you leave
the Nordstrom store, show off to your friends for weeks on end, then leave off with your pile of to-go’s in two months.
She says this, my black diva, those words she said.
My vagina shrinks. That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard and I disagree.
“I love other women.”
Words I haven’t said out-loud to myself enough times to understand. Instead, I write poems — formulas to ease understanding.
The first time a man touched me with his Brillo Pad fingers, I was five. The last time, I was 21. At 16, I asked a boy to hold my virginity. He held it in between his ring finger and thumb — it’s not new, he said.
I agreed. It has been stripped like onion layers at Burger King.
Catholics said god will give me a second one if I prayed. I needed a dozen at that point. God frowned not knowing I had Brillo Pad scars all across my clitoris and vaginal walls.
Women who love other women were abused.
I love individuals.
I love individuals because I have seen how men move in systems. From five, I have known that the love in my heart cannot belong to man alone. It belongs to the light inside the light in you — I see the light that shines for me. And so, I love individuals.
I love in human. I love that women are beautiful. I love that womyn are beautiful. I love that trans is beautiful. I love that the light inside the light of me can love right.