exposed

laid out. dissected

like scalpels and clanging

trays on countertops.

glistening bits on display

and eyes, peering

all the way over,

charging anxious fingers

to stay in their pockets

where they belong.

        14.12. 15

Groupies

I’m knock-kneed, in that baseline bumping
your thump thumping
in a musty corner at the café
where I do my morning purge. Steep, sweeten and sip
slow

cinnamon topped foam, hot.
sweet burn on the tongue
like that time when…

I recall your thirsty whiskey eyes, your
fingertips
and the chasm they peeked their toes
over. steel-string rugged and
graze over my johnson&johnson thighs.

I could reach the other side but
I could drop down deep, too deep and far from home. Either way there’s no
landing
upright.

so
jump across, big boy, jump
fast and with purpose.

Somanona

for Francesca

the click click of your wedge heeled boots

percuss the concrete in a rhythm he can’t

bop his head to. your high bun perches where

his too short arms cannot reach. he hangs

from the silver ring in your flared wide open

nostril swaying in the gentle exhales above

your frosted bumptious lips. to kiss those bumptious

lips again he would call like he promised, dedicate

a remix to you. call it ms. brown skin, my chestnut

queen on patchouli street. sample a south African

drum beat and hope it makes you think of Lagos

long enough to need to be held, cuddled, comforted

but not long enough to put you on a flight back

home. the elongation of your vowels stroke his earlobes,

sends a shiver up to his elbow, a twitch in his flour dusted

trousers. he thinks his goods would be better with a sweetener extracted

from your voice. if only he could tap into you. 

Co-Operation

... while reading Fenton Johnson

Co-operation

I had taken a lover for his morals and his strong family values

Apparently, he just wanted to dip into some danger.

He was one of those curious boys with a taste for The Other

and thought I could be his Saartjie Baartman or his Josephine Baker or some 80s-baby edition of his great grandpappy’s wet nurse.

He said to me one day that my cousin DayVauhn had taken his brother’s job.

I stared back at him blankly and asked him who had told his brother that blue eyes were worth more than a Master’s degree.

There was no calling of names

No dropping of N bombs

But the exchange was less than pleasant

so I had to introduce him to Cleopatra Jones or whatever bad ass Black bitch he thought he was getting some softer version of.

And that was the end of that.

A.Emme 2012

A Poem for the White Boys

I am an owl

But you’re a day walker

My voice is familiar

But before you

I

Am

A marvel.

A rare bird

With eyes beyond understanding

And vision surpassing the scope of your own

My dark feathers camouflage me

But my hoot gives me away

Let your eyes adjust

And suddenly

There I am

Quiet and still

I

Intrigue

You

My scent creeps around the glass

            Between us

and calls to your insides

Your fun-sides

Your oh-i-want-to-touch sides

A little bit of new car,

sweet almond, and Mommy

Excitement, baked goods and some old familiar comfort

A newness, a freshness

A sweetness

A meekness

Its tickled your nostrils and you can’t turn away

I am your sweet songbird

Who sings like a lullaby

A chant. A prayer

Soothing, calming

Inspiring, uplifting

Soul stimulating

Mind titillating

Dream infiltrating

Strutting through your thought bubbles

Leaving footprints where there were none

Disturbing the sand

The waves just washed blank

With tracks that lead you in circles

But never back home

                                                -A. Emme

                                                       2011