triptych of a black woman surviving
i. panther
come on, Bastet
the moon’s stuck with an eight ball in the sky
watch it ringing the side of every star before
lodging itself in the moon
wonder if it means there’s any luck with
you. wonderful. wonderful. you.
you could be anything you want to be tonight
but you are a black panther
pressing your face to the moon.
so you shine bright like a quarter in a fountain
glistening next to cheap mall tiles
but they can never make you look cheap—
never.
you look just like the picture of the black panther
the one National Geographic put on the cover of their magazine
jammed between the covers of Cosmopolitan and Essence in
the nail salon spinner rack
but they can never make you look cheap—
never.
you can be anything you want to be tonight
(as long as the moon’s stuck with an eight ball in the sky)
and you are a black panther. the
creeping lurking sneaking
black panther.
almond yellow-green eyes long midnight hair slender
black panther.
standing out like black on white in the
modern concrete jungle
the new-age ‘dog-eat-dog’ paradise
but you are Bastet
when the moon’s stuck with an 8 ball in the sky.
ii. gazelle
run
run
run
sweet gazelle
cross the hotter-than-hot safari
and across the mouth of the cheetah, chasing
behind
you
run
run
run
sweet gazelle
you didn’t ask for this life
with the running
and escaping
fleeing with only the fur on your back
you didn’t ask for the burning embers of the sun to scorch you
brand you
mark you like cain
you didn’t ask to be treated like fresh meat in the butchery
labeled with a price
then sold and sold again
so just keep
running
running
running
sweet sweet gazelle
oh, never let it catch you
don’t let that cheetah with it’s hanging broken jaw
ravage you—dead on the canvas of the safari
just keep running
running
running
sweet gazelle
until the burning embers of the sun go black
(cold to the touch)
and until you feel like you can run to the ends of the earth
run
run
run
sweet gazelle
go until you can jump right off
and hook your horns into the fabric of the stars
and hang amongst them
sweet sweet gazelle
iii. swan
they say black bodies can never
glow white like the swan
treading slowly through a shimmering pond
innocent and unassuming
pearly pearly skin
black bodies don’t glow like that
not with the sun perched on her high pedestal
not with her unescapable eye
you don’t have to be the glistening white swan
with a delicate curving neck
cradling the globe like a burden
looking at the world through the crosshairs.
you will never have to be that dead bleeding white swan
mounted on the wall—eyes blank and open
a trophy some prize well fought for
no no you get to be as wild and untamed as you want
no collar
no gun staring you down like the hunt has been your birthright
on the edge of the world is a black swan
radiating with unknown power and mystery
they whisper in tongues that only they know
carrying those unspoken secrets of the earth
its pains its weariness its sorrow
stories long lost to this modern age, but ever present
hidden in the pockets of the pond
smoking steaming like the barrel of a fresh gun.
blaring as red as struck iron and then cooling cooling black.
waiting
waiting
for you in the silence
like a breath
holding til’ the last second.
gone.