Death Woman

I always knew It was a She.

After all, who else has the power to hate with smiles

And give birth to Revolutions…

There had to be estrogen sleeping beside the pools

Of thick blood on Park Avenue,

Where a dead man lay with his eyes open.

He was probably in Love. I could tell by the shape of his mouth,

Slightly curved up at the corners and flat in the center,

Giving his face a look of balanced insanity.

The shoes on his feet were a rich brown

Calling attention to the color of his eyes.

Who did he look at last? Make Love to last? Surely he made Love.

I walked around the perimeter of his body,

Wondering if an enigmatic chalk outline remained hidden beneath

His torn torso.

Nothing. No chalk or crayons outlined his soul.

But there was something shining on his left hand, middle finger.

A silver ring with a small dagger in the middle.

The dagger was dull but centered, and if turned sideways,

Resembled a human leg. A shiny human leg.

Funny how fast things can change.

As I left the body and its observers,

I could not help but wonder that It used to have a gender,

A life, a Love, a lasting impact on someone, somewhere.

We Are Scars

we are scars.

etched into each

other’s skin: magic

we wear these scars boldly,

like chains

hanging around our necks

freely.

an entire ocean

once separated our bodies,

but our voices swam across

transatlantic lines.

and when nobody believed us,

our scars grew

wildly into moveable mountains.

our scars, deep burgundy

rich in stories and stars

reminding us of human fragility

you touch my scar

and I touch yours

different shapes, same size.

a scar that was diminutive,

now spans the width of our worlds

combined.

yes, it is true.

love, like pain,

is skin deep.

No Woman Wants To Be Fucked

No woman wants to be fucked.
Even the ones who sell pieces of their parts on modern day auction blocks,
Sucking on johnsons to feed life into Green.

I learned this the hard way.
After all, the art of movement,
Horizontally and vertically,
Can move the mind to erupt into a million little lies for five seconds.

But trust me,
No woman wants to be fucked.

Even those who can handle inches of lives lost within and without their wombs,
Screaming for lost men
And underpaid soldiers to come save them.
They take it all in,
Just to make the Hims happy
While thinking of the pretty shoes they will buy tomorrow.

I knew her. She looked like a barbie doll that was never created:
Fat and black with short hair
That was deciduous and daring.
One would think she was a politician the way her words made you believe she could fly like Concord jets,
Fast and fiery.
But she was a woman
Who pretended to be a man
So she didn't have to care
Anymore.

Believe me,
No woman wants to be fucked.

Even the damsels who show cleavage like wrist watches.
Look tastefully, but don't suck on them too hard
Or she will allow someone else to do the task,
Better and slower than her lover.
She will play roles for you and hurt her soles for you
But her heart will chew pieces of you
Into small pieces you will never get back.

They think they know
How she thinks
By the way she switches,
Or that her sexual prowess is due to her innate passion.
But no, it is attributed to everything they said She could not be:
Free.

Sometimes women want to be fucked,
But do not fuck with them.
Sometimes women want to be screwed,
But do not unscrew them.
Sometimes women want to be feared,
But do not fear them.

However, these things never seem to run parallel to the way Life fucks all of us.

No woman wants to be fucked,
In fact,
Nobody does...

Like Brothas on the Homefront

“ay yo imma fuck you up! come here man!” shouted the tall threatening man.

he was wearing khaki pants and a button down shirt

that was not tucked in.

i stood across the street, staring, wondering if i was about to witness

a fight on the corner of 149^th and concord.

the man he addressed was yellow in color, and husky.

he wore shorts and a t-shirt and i wondered if he had a family

because he looked like someone’s father.

“shut up asshole!” he yelled back forcefully. “you’re always talking shit!”

the two, strong men began walking towards each other,

both taking deliberate steps as if being filmed for an old western.

i stood cautiously by the rusty, gray streetlamp, wanting to walk away

but unable to. i guess i am a part of problems instead of solutions

after all.

as they got closer, the expressions on their faces remained the same,

tinged with fury and arrogance. tall, threatening man stopped first

and mr. husky stopped second. they stared at each other for a split second

and finally…

they embraced with laughs and smiles,

reflecting on the ups and downs of their days and lives.

i stared across the street in disbelief.

how did I fail to recognize the love amidst their apparent anger?

once i got over my shock, i walked away, as silently as i stood.

i looked back one final time,

and saw the two men entering the local bar,

like brothas on the homefront…

© Crystal Belle

When The Smoke Clears

*Dedicated to the memory of Taswya Cambridge*

You never imagine that the one person you speak to,

(When the streets are empty and the pollution has not yet arrived)

Will die.

You do not imagine it will happen because you are too busy

Wondering if the corner store will have half and half milk

For your {non} free trade coffee.

You do not imagine it will happen because you are too busy

Admiring the sound of this woman’s voice as she speaks.

You do not

You cannot

Imagine the unseen.

She walked like Purpose,

Striding along Willoughby Avenue.

Sometimes she had a cigarette in her hand, blowing

Smoke across the morning air.

The combination of tobacco and beauty made me gaze

And wonder about what she did in her spare time.

We always said the typical “hello, how are you?”

Whenever our paths managed to diverge.

But this time, a few weeks ago, I saw her again,

And we talked like two old friends.

“Gurl, I already purchased my tickets for my summer vacations.”

She smiled, apparently deep in thought about the fun she would have.

I smiled too, because I realized I had nothing yet planned

For the summer.

She encouraged me to do the same,

Book tickets.

I saw her again a month later near the G train on Classon.

She smiled and nodded, saying nothing.

Who knew that would be the last time I ever saw her face?

Her tickets are unused…a profit made by the airlines.

Just last night, I purchased a ticket

For a summer vacation…

© Crystal Belle

Woman You Are

Woman, you are more than you

Understand,

Standing over mountains just to ensure

The world is safe.

Sometimes you bake pieces of your knowledge

Just so others can have a taste

And they slowly ingest,

Swallowing the sounds of your style.

Woman, you are purple

Calling attention to all things that

Start with the letter “P.”

The royal tresses atop your majestic thoughts

Are bold and deciduous,

But never falling.

Woman you are uncut

Original and layered with Love’s power.

You build bridges for our fellow sistas

To tread upon when they have

Nowhere to go.

This bridge is crafted with estrogen and exclamations

Rebirth and rejuvenation

All in the name of convocation.

Woman, you are Time

Moving, never stopping,

Even in the midst of chaos.

You control Tsunamis and

Make the rain fall on barren crops.

The world needs you over and over again.

Woman, you are water

Filtering through impuritites

To find the truth.

Washing, weaving and waving

Peace signs to anyone who cares.

You dare others to say yes

To kindness.

Woman, you are tomorrow,

Giving everyone in your presence

Something to look forward to:

A new beginning with new memories

Waiting to be photographed

And shelved on mantels.

Woman you are Creator,

Fostering lives within your womb

That never worries

Only prays for those that did not

Survive the little passage.

Some are ready.

Some are not.

Woman, you are mother,

Giving birth to all of the beauty

Manifested in forgotten roses

Who were more burgundy than red.

You saved them from the bees.

Woman, you proudly wear

This swollen stomach like

Sugar-coated dreams.

A person of great possibility

Lies within

And we are all witnesses

To the fruits of your labor.

 © Crystal Belle

Silent Mornings

there is no sound quite like silence,

emitting problems that never existed, into

the stuffy, fourth floor apartment air.

the silence makes me forget that the sun is rising

outside my window, purple in color and loud in its shine. 

i turn over to make sure it is true, that i am alone,

without a second shadow on the beige wall.

the green slippers on your side of the bed collect dust,

waiting for your feet to return.

i step into your footprint,

hoping i will get a whiff of your presence.

instead, i am only reminded that you are not here.

the kitchen table remains cluttered with the bills

you left on its surface before leaving.

i do not move it, because i want to remember how

you placed things.

someone is knocking on the door.

at first my heart deceives me, thinking it could be you.

but you, nor i, can escape the atlantic ocean.

i learn it is the neighbor,

returning your tools.

the silence is brave,

questioning the longevity of our patience.

we are both afraid of the effects of silence

on the body.

after all,

we love to make noise

in the morning.

© Crystal Belle