His lips, big African lips
like his mother carried
water on her head and his father
father wore animal skin.
Like when he was in
his mothers womb, those lips
gave rise to the rest of him.
His lips are, simultaneously,
all the tears of June 16
and all the euphoria of April 26.
You see, he thinks I don’t know
but oh I know how much he
hides behind those lips,
behind his gated teeth
that cage his tongue
and I know he wont like
me saying these things
but I have to
because I want him to know
that I know what he
thinks I don’t know because
somehow in my fixer mind
this means I love him,
because for the first time
I don’t want to fix someone.
I just want to lay on his chest
as it hungrily consumes his
heart beat, leaving crumbs of him
all the way to my soul that stores
him in glass and titanium so he’ll
never leave.
In that moment I am reminded
that I am the one who needs
fixing. But also that no matter
how many times my jagged edges
draw blood,
he will always have enough left over
to rap for me,
to help me put on my shoes,
to get mad at me for falling asleep,
to wipe my tears away.
His lips, big African lips
that reverberate with the
beat of a thousand drums
and the silence of a
thousand thousand tree’s.
His lip, dipped in the red river
of the struggles of being black,
his lips pour out the struggle of
being human.
I think pour is the wrong word:
his lips tornado out the struggle
of being human.
And in a gust of lyrical genius
he unknowingly, intricately
reveals to me the struggle of being
a black man, loving a fair skinned
woman.
And in a gust of lyrical genius
he gently, lovingly peels back
the layers of me only
stopping so we can breathe,
so he can remind me why he
loves each divergently.
His lips, big African lips
are the perfect contrast
between naive hope and
cynical pessimism.
He thinks I don’t
see the light dancing in his iris’s
which is weird for me:
its the only thing
keeping me from complete darkness.
He thinks I don’t see the
labyrinth of darkness
woven delicately into his pupils
which is weird for me:
every single cell in my body
understands the dark.
This is not to say that
I understand his darkness,
only that I appreciate its
ironic incandescence.
I can lead us both through
the darkness, with the light
from his eyes.
His lips, big African lips
inhale, exhale
regale the tale of a
child, never held, but always loved.
Of a mother strong but rigid.
Of sisters always loving, never loved.
Of an angry black man with
dreams that society refuses to
make room for or understand.
Of a black man who can do anything
but wants to do the one thing he’s
told he can’t do.
Of a black man in the struggle
of consciousness.
His lips, big African lips
that blow metaphorical kisses
at thick women,
that plant literal kisses
on my inner thigh
and I have to sigh:
among all the toxicity
in the lungs of society
he is the perfect dose
of oxygen.
In My Shoes 