Rosalind Guy's Blog, page 4

The Flat Tire

Sometimes a black bodied woman is just a woman

no menace no slut no thug no whore no bitch but

a poet who wrestles with a world that seeks to define her

using the words she so values and where does that

leave her but alone and ashamed too embarrassed to

admit that words have power like a double-edged sword

and you’re damn near killing her with your words

This morning I had the clever idea that I would dress

in a way to fight off all of your offensive words I

looked in the mirror and plastered on my fake smile

with my makeup practiced responding to unwanted

attention with soft and feminine responses so I wouldn’t

be called a bitch for simply resting my face while I

revel in my own thoughts then I had to figure out what to

wear and I couldn’t decide between my university sweatshirt

or the work hoodie with the name of the school where I work

and a skirt the long one that doesn’t show my knees or the

dress I wear to church or my camo jeans with the loop

for my hunting knife the one I bought for protection

against men who cannot be satiated with a fake smile and

nod hello or my backpack the one that’s heavy with books

I’ve already read or a tank top wanting to dress for the

weather but I looked at my arms and tried to figure if they

were too muscular or too flabby dressing for this world

is tiring so I figured the best thing to do: wear it all

But then my car got a flat and I was stuck by the side of the

road and I realized I forgot to put on the voice that makes me sound

white when I’m talking on the phone and getting down on my

knees to change my own tire makes me look like even less of a

woman than you imagine me being and tomorrow my arms will

be sore because those nuts are tightened  so that only a man

can undo them because any woman who knows how to carry

herself and how to submit to a man can find her a man and if

you don’t have one well it’s your own fault and sometimes

you just have to understand that a man will be a man and don’t

call him out when he treats you bad because then you’ll make

him look bad not feel bad and there’s a difference but

none of that explains why you left me by the side of the road

with a flat tire and a broken stud with the nut still locked on or

why you didn’t realize that sometimes a black woman is just

a woman and sometimes a woman is just walking down to the

end of the block to get the name of the street so she knows

the exact intersection of the place where she finally lost and

found herself and where she realized that no amount of clothes

can get you to see she’s not who you want her to be

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Happy second day of poetry month loves! And good news: two of my poems are in the spring edition of African Voices magazine. Here’s a link to the magazine here.  Check it out. The spring issue is full of dynamic poetry and stories and art.

Happy reading!

Hold My Hand

Here

hold my

hand. Take me

where you go.

But don’t let

go of my hand.

Where you go

I will follow.

I will close my

eyes, take a deep

breath, inhale

your scent

your smile

your spirit.

My only prayer

will be:

Stay.

Here

hold my

hand. Let’s

sway to the music

of our beating

hearts, a love like

no other. A love

like this frightens

me, but I will not

falter in my steps.

I will follow

where you lead.

My only prayer

will be:

Love.

Here

hold my

hand. Hold me

and I will

hold you.

Not too tight

to smother

but tight enough

to let you know

that it is my

prayer that I

am the answer

to all your

prayers

as you are

the answer to

mine.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

The Principal

For her. I apologize for not being there to save you.

Locked in a tight space

the two of us together

Power & Submission, sentries

that stand guard. But they’re not

there to watch over me.

He touched me & no one flinched

but me. I screamed but he pushed the

screams back down my throat with his cock.

He used it to shut me up, suffocated me

with his need. I shook my head.

He told me, “You’re so pretty.”

Then he broke me, so many pieces on the

floor, who would stoop to pick them up?

I shook my head, drank in my own tears

while he used my fears to fuck me.

I just wanted it to be over. I told him no

but he continued to take me into his office

where no one could see. And he. Fucked. Me.

Why did no one try to save me?

Why do you demand that I have the

strength of a man just because he chose

to rape me? Did you not hear my screams?

Later on, in the hall, he smiled at me

and I knew the call would come again

but I didn’t know when. All I did know

Was that I only wanted it to be over

but it never will be over. The call will come

again and again no one will save me.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

I’m in Love

They wouldn’t believe me if I told them

so I mostly don’t tell them a thing about

how I feel, instead I hold my words close

to my breast, close to my heart.

I’m in love.

And I know you saw that look in my eyes

when we last talked about love and I know you

saw that book on my shelf, the one titled

f**ck love & I know you’ve heard me at night

spilling tears on my pillow over some

love that got lost along the way.

And I know you wouldn’t believe me if

I told you that I am in love, but really I am.

You can trust me. It’s love I’m feeling.

In the morning the sun tickles my back, its

finger draws an invisible line & I relax

my body presses into the body of the stranger

lying in bed beside me. They’re all strangers

And I’m in love. I’m always in love.

I feel you breathing, exhaling, sighing

beside me and I want to know more

about you, but you don’t talk much when

you’re awake.

It’s enough to know you’ll be there

to feel your breath against my neck

to exist in these fragile moments

with you.

And when you whisper my name against

my neck, I know for sure like I’ve never known

before, that yes, I am. I’m in love.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

 

I Ain’t Sorry For Nothing I Done

I ain’t sorry for

nothing I

done, that’s what

your eyes

tell me

Draw me into

reminiscing

about slow shower

dances, deep belly

laughs, flirty glances,

a blossoming romance

that split me open

to the core

like an apple

exposed                    again

is this love

Love me more

as I love you

forever

Standing under stars

listening to the

sky as it speaks

whispers our names

like a dream

tears like falling stars

being embraced

by the night

the cold makes me

shudder.

Is that sound

echoing through the

night

your heart or mine

beating away the

darkness, the shroud

of loneliness

a life without you

I ain’t sorry for

nothing I

done, your eyes

tell me and I

couldn’t

agree more

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

I Resist

RESIST!

I recently purchased a shirt with one word on it: resist. The shirt has Wonder Woman on the front as well, so when I saw it, I was like yes!!! But I’m a thinker and often reflect on things I’ve said and done and so I asked myself during a moment of reflection, why exactly I had felt compelled to purchase the shirt. What exactly is there for me to resist? And, man, did I open up a can of worms.

As much as I may not like the current president, my “resistance” does little to prevent him from (1) continuing to serve in the capacity of President of the United States, (2)work feverishly to erase all the progress made by the first black president of the U.S. (hmmm, I wonder why), and (3) continue to remain popular among people who blame the “fake news” for his misdeeds. Russia? Fake news. Racist bigot? Fake news. A health care plan that knocks people off health care and places the financial burden on poor people while giving breaks to the rich? Fake news. Besides who needs a break anyway? Certainly not poor people. Because it’s their fault they’re poor, right? Riiiigggghht. But I digress. So, again, what is there to resist? I mean, what really is within my power to change?

White “Christian” males will still decide what I can and cannot do to my body. They can continue to oppress minorities (blacks, Hispanics, and women) and claim that everyone has the same opportunities. Side-eye to those who foolishly believe that the fact that America had a black president is enough to signify that racism no longer exists. See Donald Trump.

Okay, so, again, what can I resist and actually have a real impact on?

I resist the foolishness that says that because more than 90 percent of “poor people” have refrigerators, they’re not “really” poor. I resist the dumbass stereotypes about “poor people” not wanting health insurance because they have iPhones. I resist buying into the negative stereotypes of people of color portrayed on TV. I know all black women aren’t messy women who need a daily drama fix and who have low self-esteem and daddy issues. I also know that not all black men are drug-dealing men who desire nothing more in life than to kill other black men. I resist accepting that a 12-year-old should be shot and killed for playing with a toy gun. I resist accepting that all black people are criminal. I resist the society that accepts that my son should be a target for harassment, following or arresting because he dares to live, dream, walk, speak, drive, shop, or anything else while black. I resist accepting that I can’t be angered by the murder of unarmed black men by thugs with a badge while simultaneously having high regard for police officers who perform their duties with honor and selflessness. I resist the belief that I cannot simultaneously resist racist treatment of people of color in a system that was designed and oppress non-White people while also resisting mistreatment of black females by males. I resist the idea that pro-black automatically means anti-white. I resist society’s insistence that I accept at face value what it believes to be true, thereby invalidating my own feelings and experiences. I resist anything that makes me uncomfortable in my own skin, unhappy in my life or denies me inner peace. I resist labels. I resist settling for less than. I resist society’s idea of how I should live my life.

I resist through my poetry (In fact, I have two resistance poems that will be published in a popular magazine next week. I won’t say which one yet because I haven’t signed the contract yet.). I resist through the stories I tell. I resist through the books I read. I resist through the messages that I pass on to my kids. I resist through the way I interact with people. I resist with love.

I resist. Because I can.

I resist.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

They Always Leave

They always leave, she said

And I had to admit it’s true

That every man I’ve ever loved

One day chose to leave.

“But I ain’t ashamed for nothing

I done,” I said. And I meant it.

Talking this way made me

Think of you. And I thought of

That day when we sat in my backyard.

How later, lying on a blanket I’d stolen

From my mother’s bed, I was able to ignore

The irregular beating of my heart because

It just seemed so clichéd that my heart felt like

It was physically breaking at the same time

That my soul was shattering.

We counted the stars and you described constellations

For me. And somewhere in between we

Wished we could go back to 16. When it would

Seem that we would have forever to

Number the stars in the sky. When it would seem

We’d have forever to keep our love alive.

I counted 45 stars that night. You argued

There were more, but finally you let me

Have my way because it was almost time

To say good-bye.

I sometimes wonder if you already knew

We were saying our final goodbye

That night & maybe that’s why you

Touched my cheek long after you’d wiped away

My tears and maybe it was why you never

Came right out and said those words, good-bye

Just held my hand like it was the first time

Kissed my lips & whispered I love you

Then waited as the words were caught up

In my mouth where I swallowed them & when

I did it felt like a million tiny stars exploding inside

And that was better than any simple good-bye.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Alone in the Night

“My mother would kill me if she got the chance. I would kill my mother if I had the courage.” Annie John, Jamaica Kincaid

What about giving birth

left you wearing envy like

a second skin, too tight to move

around in? Were her cries too

suffocating for you to exist in & so

you been hitting back, fighting

ever since you first held her

in your arms and heard her cry

knowing sometimes you would not

be the one who could stop her tears

Empty insults & closed fists are

not God’s gift and should not have

been yours either. How can you not see

how she cowers underneath the blistering

rays of your hate? Why are you trying to

teach her to hate herself while despising

that very hate? You force her to stand in

your shadow, cowering, crying, trying to hold

herself together and you hate her for always

falling apart.

Will you always teach her to ignore the sun &

force her into the night? As if though you haven’t

always belonged to the night, as if though

you have not spent an eternity trying to part the folds

of night and escape. You know the horror of

being enveloped in dark clouds that descend

like a mist, slowly overtaking you until

there is no you left. Did you just not want to be

left alone in the night? Is that why you chose to

keep her lost in the night? Is that

why?

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Some People

Some people will

argue that you

have never been raped,

will shove their

inconvenient truth

down your throat

like a too-soft cock

that’s unable to get hard.

They will demand proof

that the will to say no

was completely out of your hands

as if though privilege & position

can never be used as weapons

They will demand that you

prove your victimization, the

danger of any –ism is

people see what they want to see

They will pull the leaves off

flowers that are slowly dying

inside, pretending not to see

the delicate petals that are wilting

or the screams that are trapped

but always trying to get out.

Some people will tell you

that unless you’re

laying spread eagle &

somehow find the strength to

unmuffle the scream trapped

in your throat that

you’ve never really been raped,

not really.

As if though every no must be

spoken loudly in order to be heard &

softly-spoken resistance is

another form of desire. And didn’t you

know it all along? No,

this doesn’t feel right becomes

If Only for One Night.

Some people will try to convince you

that being raped is not about power, that it’s

about sex and that your skirts are too short,

your voice is too soft, and you really

wanted it all along. They will tell you

that monsters are only found under beds &

deep inside darkened closets. That you’ll never

find them in an office or even sitting beside you

on your couch.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

 

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Photo courtesty of GettyImages

The Sidewalk

There’s this woman who sits outside a convenience store I pass sometimes. I first was drawn to her because it was strange for me to see a woman, who could easily be my mother, sitting outside on the ground. Surrounding her are large bags, like the ones we keep our trash in, but inside her bags were all her belongings. I had to stop and do something. I went in the store, bought me a tea and took her some money. The first couple of times that’s all I did was stop and give her money. But I couldn’t get her out of my mind. When I’d drive away from her, I’d sometimes have to stop and cry. Where’s her family, I kept wondering.

Every weekend I go looking for her. And I find her. Now, I talk to her. Sometimes our conversations make sense, other times the things she says seem more like snatches of memory from some time before.  I have called the police and told them I think she needs help. I’ve offered to take her to one of the city’s warming centers (sometimes the temps drop to the low 30s). I’ve written to news stations, suggesting someone go talk to her. I feel sure that someone, somewhere must be missing her. Surely, they must think about her the way I do when I can’t make it to that corner during the week. I worry about her. I’ve been wanting to write a poem that conveys my feelings for her. I haven’t written anything yet that I’m happy with. This might be because I’ve been so busy with my writing group assignments and working on the short stories for my upcoming book. Or it might be that familiar difficulty I have with expressing myself sometimes.

Anyway, this is what I have so far:

Sitting on the sidewalk

beside a stranger, like my mother

I do not recognize her but I know her

We sit there perched like birds, ready to take off

and soar at a minute’s notice. We have only stopped

in mid-flight. Our journey is not over.

I haven’t felt comfortable outside since I was a child.

I’m torn between staying and leaving

but when I do leave I want to make sure she will remember

me, how I tried to love her. I want her to cradle memories

of me like she holds tightly to the garbage bag holding

all her belongings. We are both bag ladies. In my bag

there’s leftover love, in her bag is a change of clothes, a blanket,

a four-leaf clover, a bubble gum wrapper, some things she’s found

she must have family somewhere missing her but when

I ask about them, she says “Sure I have family” and then she

wanders along a path where the language being spoken barely

registers in my ears. Will you remember me when I’m gone, I ask.

Turning to me she says, “They keep the doors locked at night. I can’t

be in a place like that.” My thoughts are like the cars whizzing by

on the street. Music drifts from car windows, somewhere a woman

laughs. Behind us children squeal and yell out.

I haven’t felt comfortable outside since I was a child.

I want to follow the sound of the children’s squeals, but I don’t

want to leave her alone. What will she do when she’s alone?

Where will she go? All doors are locked at night

Sometimes to keep people from getting in, mostly to keep us from

getting out.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind