POETRY SUBMISSION: Untitled by Jasmine Respess

——–
Dear black man,
I know you are a child
Of flowers.
You don’t deny your gentle nature,
But they deny it for you.
I don’t know your origin,
But you are and are not from here.
It’s not a question of strange nor queer.
Do you elicit fear,
When you walk by the porcelain circus ladies,
In the night, or in the day,
Do they turn away,
Or stare with purpose?
I will never fully understand you,
You are soft on purpose,
But we don’t see.
I am of stone faced,
Yet of feminine form.
Do you love your brothers,
Do you touch them the way I touch them.
The way I touch my sisters?
Dear black man,
I don’t want to turn from you,
You call for me on the road.
“Hey booty, hey baby, hey beauty.”
To say you are different than every black man,
Is to say every black man is the same.
How could I know?
Me with my Carmel skin,
And my wash and go hair.
Who really cares to know my opinion,
On the nice black boy in class,
Or the one that comments on my ass.
Black pride and prejudice.
——–
Spring: The yellow tree is the earthbound physical representation of the bursting sun and my new heart.

 

Who are you?
For spring, witch hazel is the harbinger.
Love is winter’s snow melting.
Falling, but meant to fall apart,
To reveal the neophytes,
Beneath the ice.
Will what’s between us suffice?
Will it quell the fiery hell of my heart?
Will it warm the coldness of your intellect?
Youth begets lust,
But lust is a means to an end.
I won’t pretend I am not glad,
When my eyes,
Widen to catch,
Every curve of your face,
And scratch on your back.
Moonlight, ramble, jubilee,
What’s good for you,
Is best for me.
Our russet, tissue; drone, a honey bee;
Our brook, a sea; our thin water, wine;
What’s violent to you is divine.
Be gentle my thoughts,
I pray when they are in toil.
Lay me down,
But don’t cover me,
Mix me with soil.
Will spring lift me like a spore to the sky?
Will that Muse make the yellow tree a bursting heart?
Will what’s between us suffice?
Will the creatures in the forest,
Know the sound,
Of my blossoming heart?
My soul,

Only one,

Muddles solely with yours.
——–
Dark tree: the spring is not your friend or foe.
You independent willow.
Why do you cry?
Not for lost platonic love and romance is not your game.
Is it for shame of being lit without buds like voluptuous tits?
——-
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