latroya-lovell
LaTroya Lovell is a fiction, memoir, and poetry writer; born and bred in Harlem, New York. Her writing is centered mainly around personal identity, and a lot of it falls among the brackets of minority issues, woman experiences, and origin. Here you will find a collection of her poems and prose.
Around this particular time i can recall bonfires on a Far Rockaway beach
in between two and three AM
The fire; a heap of AM newyork papers burning in a rusted trash can stolen from the boardwalk.
Kiah was beautiful
her hair, coarse honey ringlets framed
a narrow face. I watched her eat grapes
and pull her hair away from her eyes a couple
of times. She ate the grapes and their juice made her lips glossy she did this and sipped on a Corona
her boyfriend sat behind her playing the guitar
and no attention to anyone. I wanted him.
A few days before that I was in his room
He asked if I ever heard Shaggy's "Mr. Bombastic"
that's what was playing when she walked into the room
she stared at me like a cat plotting an attack
walked past me like one too
the night before that I lay on the floor
of his room. There was no furniture
a motor bike in the corner. Some drums,
and various painted wood boards hung up, some laying
on the floor. Oil pastels scattered along with
screws, and bolts. while he played
maxwell on his guitar, acrylic paint under his finger nails.
I woke on the floor with a fuzzy purple throw blanket over me he was still in the same spot strumming and,
smoking a beedie when the sun came up
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 11:21 PM UTC
The insides of me cry
and they do it the same way woman on the TV do
face red, hysterical, tissue in hand
Aching In the way No one can
know, I am trying to find the
beginnings of this lump in my heart
which break can I attribute it to?
Learning to Love her, letting her go?
The women who bite half moons into her thighs
Or the men that tell you it’s okay when they slip their hands into your *******
eyes flooding, inside out
So it could never be force?
Thinking about how many bus rides I took to Philly,
the broken bed frame at the apartment in the Bronx I had to leave
your smell got into the paint in the walls.
The truth in between spoken words you wish to take back
and people a few blocks down,
the regret in not taking the long way.
or that nothing feels the same when I am with you?
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
You have another lover
she is tired of the dark
the women in her are weary.
The ones that were the most lively
now withdraw.
She, sips her tea and doesn’t feel its warmth any more
it tastes like naivety,
one of them used to be aroused
by the taste of honey,
now it is bitter
and reminds her
even if she aches for her father
he could never love her.
how he loves her brother.
another one,
used to put cream in her coffee
her accent; hispanic
becomes a, cafe con crema
she drinks it black
swallows it hot
scorching her throat
blackening the words
she needs to speak
about the woman you are now loving
because her skin is old
and her mouth tastes like tar.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 11:18 PM UTC