Black girl.
Heavy word, black.
One that comes with an even heavier history.
A tender burden for the Wildean child,
especially one who had little hope, and little help.
Black boy,
they told you you were drizzle, so you became a storm.
Too loquacious for your identity,
you more than exceeded all bounds.
But they were never really prepared for you, were they?

“Like Emerson I write above the mantle of my door ‘whim’”.
I’m a Wildean character in a tragedian’s play.
The tired hedonist in pursuit of beauty.

The bull necked man
with a single thought
could only muster one retort
“****” he said
and a million Wildean thoughts
cascaded in my head
and ultimately I said
nothing