Brown Eyes Meet Blue
each black woman
wonders about pale white skin
blond white hair, pink white pussy
white Whites within
wonders about what
attracts black men.
No Suicides for Fathers, Part One
The majority of my life,
I never saw my father cry.
Until his mother died.
Having been there myself,
it seemed an appropriate occasion
for tears.
And until I showed up
Childless, jobless, homeless
and alone
at my father’s house
I never saw
a face fit for tears again.
His shoulders fell and he lament
“Maybe I did something wrong”
I wanted to comfort my father
to tell him the parentage was perfect
I am not fit for things which otherwise
would be normal.
Sometimes in American history,
children are taken from Black mothers
Sometimes in American history,
there are no jobs for the colored
Sometimes in American history,
Black men choose to do better
than me.
But the truth has no solace
at least not from the sound
of my own voice
so I hope my father keeps the memory
of the first dance
at my sister’s wedding
to remind him
of his own worth.
* * *
Ginger
I, having never heard I love you,
tend to think matchmaking
akin to the taste of ginger
as if both parties favoring
or denying the bite
would prove some
inner, inward
would prove some
inner, inward
compatibility.
Helen’s Atlas
I refuse to see the world as others do
Into the eyes of American streets I see
Kings masquerading as paupers
Pretending to be fools
Be careful we miseducate ourselves
I suspect old Lynch was never born
But the myths internalized bear more fruit
But internalized myths bear more truth
But myths believed bear more proof
Than men deceived
Old Helen didn’t know old Atlas was black
Upheld the world on the brown of his back
One day, my brother,
You will lay your burdens down
Photo: Shutterstock
Lhea J. Love is a poet, essayist, novelist and screenwriter currently writing and residing in her birthplace, Detroit. Lhea is in the process of revising her first novel/screenplay, completing her third poetry chapbook and recording her first spoken word album. Above all else, she enjoys writing poetry with her four year old daughter Harper Lee.
* * *
Helen’s Atlas
I refuse to see the world as others do
Into the eyes of American streets I see
Kings masquerading as paupers
Pretending to be fools
Be careful we miseducate ourselves
I suspect old Lynch was never born
But the myths internalized bear more fruit
But internalized myths bear more truth
But myths believed bear more proof
Than men deceived
Old Helen didn’t know old Atlas was black
Upheld the world on the brown of his back
One day, my brother,
You will lay your burdens down
Photo: Shutterstock
