i drink my coffee black
with a hint of honey, just like she liked it.
sip on the bitter brew, condition myself to like it.
i hold my cigarette in the corner of my mouth, like she did,
practice smoking it to the nub like she taught me to.
i ignore the rain outside,
imagine cold spring sunrises on the porch
and try to finish my work,
all the while dreaming of sleep
(where you will visit
simultaneously cursing me and
asking for my forgiveness).

i have dreams
where i lose my teeth,
pull them out of my mouth one by one, while
new teeth push themselves
from my swollen pinkgums
making me repeat the process,
spitting them out, pushing them out
with my tongue
until they fill my mouth
with the hard, bitter taste of enamel.

i have dreams
where people die,
the words "revolution" on their
lips, eyes heavy and clouded
with sleep and delusion
as i watch them get carried away
and forgotten.
(I could have told you
not to die for something stupid-
yr head is not hard enough to
withstand the fall,
yr back is not strong enough to not bend.)

i have dreams where i forget to wake up.
dear universe:
i am ready to wake up now,
to still my tongue, to bow my head,
to listen.

i'm a man, who
carries his
*****
*****
like a knife,
ready to tear
into the skin of
white america.
i'm a man, who
holds my head
high, and
my back
straight, and
looks down on
anything
that tries to
hold me down.
i am a man,
a black man,
who walks over
the bridges of
my black sister's
bodies, forgetting
the times when
i ****** on her ****,
drew out her power
through her womb and
called it
revolution.

i remember us when we were young.
we two little girls,
not yet three,
sitting on my front steps, you
spitting sunflower seeds at my feet
and me ******* on the salt and
saving the insides for later.
we, inseparable at four,
singing and dancing at your bday party
(only two days before mine),
smothering cake all over our faces,
shoving icing covered fingers into our open mouths.

i remember that you were larger than life.
your head was always trying to
catch up with your body,
that expansive geography of
flesh.
even when we were kids, you
would pass your rolls of fat off for *******
(except for that summer, when
i came back and you moved away.
i was the one with the
biggest ******* on the block
then, and
instead of boys,
girls came running, wanting to see
what was hiding under my shirt.

that summer
i started my first love affair
with my new neighbor. the one i said had
the ghetto name? we would meet
in my livingroom- she on the couch and me on the floor
or
me on the couch and she on top of me and
she would lift up my shirt, struggle with my bra
and cradle my budding ******* like newborns.

...i never told you about that,
but i wanted to,
and i'm sure that's the summer when you came back to visit
and tried to get me to come out in your sly way.
you told me, "mali,
what's the point of boys? they're all trouble
anyways." and i mmed,
and you waited
and i changed the subject.

remember that time i bragged to you about smoking ****
for the first time? and little Rich
from up the block
tried to sell us bud, but we told him
we had our own? so to look cool, we stole
your grandma's ****, and i felt bad about it but
you told me it was okay because
she bought it
from my dad
anyway. i remember we rolled
a joint the size of your middle
finger and we smoked the whole thing.
i said i didn't feel nothing, but when your grandma asked us
about it, the only answer i could muster was,
"****?
what's that?"
i don't think she believed me, but she let me off the hook
and i wasn't allowed
to come over for a little while.

i remember being seven
on summer nights
and playing tag in the bushes that separated our houses or
catching lightning bugs in jars across the street
in front of the church because there
adults couldn't hear
our whispers about naughty things
like
cute teen boys and
what *** must feel like.

you seemed
to have so much freedom. you could
walk around the corner,
past the crumbling apartment where
crackheads would stumble out during midday-
all the way to the gas station
to get a huggie and a bag of chips, you said, but
who knew
what exciting adventures you might have had,
what interesting people you might have met?
my dad rarely let me go up and down the street.
i remember being so mad about that that. my big brother said
it was because me and him, we were
different.
now i realize he meant that we were
(supposed to be) better.
back then,
i wanted to be like you.
free to make my own choices. when your grandpa candy
asked me if i wanted to go on a ride on his motorcycle,
my little body shook with disappointment, because i knew
i had to say no. i sat on my front steps and
waited forever
until you came back, half hoping that
you had toppled off, or one of the other
dangerous things my mom warned me about
had come true.

instead,
you came back looking triumphant, your round cheeks
burning
with the excitement of your trip, your
half-permed hair
a messy halo
around your head.

outside,
the world is doused in
gold light.
the woman across the street
prunes her roses.
three hipsters
giggle
on the porch next door.
a mangy black cat prowls
the street, mistaking
the twinkle of wind chimes
for a nest of chirping birds.

inside,
bruiser and i are
still. (what does
a tornado look like?
what does it
feel like?

it feels like
waiting.)

i found a new word
to describe how i feel
abt yr body,
pressed up against mine.
(you make me feel
like i am starving.)

i almost
feel embarassed saying it,
admitting that
i miss yr body,
miss intently staring
into yr eyes, searching for a pattern
of freckles
similar to the ones scattered
across yr back.

i miss yr curled fingers
tugging at my hair,
keeping time with yr
surprised moans and giggles
(a funny dialogue on
the sharpness of my teeth.)

the word "miss" is strange.
it's gone
before you even get the vowel out.
i remember the night i told you
that i missed you,
& you laughed because
you were still curled up
next to me. i hope
you now understand
what i meant;

you were gone
before i even got to savor you,
before i had a chance
to get used to the taste
of you
heavy on my tongue.

now that you're gone,
i spend my nights
rummaging in the kitchen,
trying to find a texture
that reminds me of
******* you.

i'm caught-

somewhere
between
coffee ice cream &
stale
dinner rolls.

When Tzitzi and I walk, we discover forgotten places.
In the middle of the field, she
twirls her body around, arms spread out and
eyes shut, like a distraught baby bird.
She finally stops, and for a moment,
I am sure that she will collapse, dizzily,
onto the grassy floor. Instead, she points forward,
and we follow the direction of her fingers
(me, stomping- and she, tripping)
through what used to be a corn field.

Behind the book center, everything is still.
In this blue-grey light, I can imagine Pompeii,
when all the dust settled and solidified everything in ash.
Many of the rooms are still dimly lit,
and I am afraid to look into the large windows,
not wanting to see a spectral face
peering curiously back out at me. "You scared?"
Tzi asks, and I laugh,
trying not to show my chattering teeth.

We continue walking,
past the pristine bushes and trickling fountain,
to find a floor of linoleum tiles.
This pale, beige floor looks out of place here,
against the bright night's sky, but this
is what we have come here to see.

Tzitzi prepares herself for her next task. Suddenly,
she is kicking hundreds of little rocks against the sandy tiles,
and the noise sounds like the rattling of hollow bones.
The notes echo off into the woods,
and I feel happy and safe and pleased.