August 12, 2009

i am a consideration,

a beacon of understanding

that some things are hard to come by

and some things

are hard to let go of.

hold me, always, to this promise.

but if i am nothing more than blank promises

if i am nothing more than the stares i give
when you ask me for something more
than i am willing to bend for
when i am telling you things are perfect
when things have gotten to the point where
even my writing it down doesn't save me
if my writing doesn't save us
hold me to that promise.

some things change easily.
like the quickening of my pulse
whenever i find myself shifting
from one foot to the other
to regain some sort of balance
and everyone knows i'm clumsy
so the shifting is a risk of falling
way too far
way too fast

love
there is only one thing i need to tell you
i have never been able to stand still
my shoes have the souls of champions
but i planted my heart
in the soil of the places where you sleep,
in the ground you walk on,
so i know that every step
will bring you closer
.there are few things i know better than myself
i know your heartbeat
i know it thumps faster when our hands touch
and our hands never stop touching
i know my pulse
never slowed down in the last few minutes
when i knew that i would be leaving
and i knew that i wanted nothing more
than to walk where you walk
and never. stop. touching.

my love is not idle
it has quick-started the rhythm in my chest to make something
more beautiful than i could ever make by myself
so, here,
play my strings. make them yours.
my body is a raging cacophonyuntil your fingers touch the strings in my bones
and play them like a symphony of hope
there are some things i can't forget
like the perfection in those first few seconds
of fumble-kissing,
the way my eyes never left that
goofy smile on your face,
that goofy look on your face,
never. letting. go.

i fall asleep to your breathing
and wake up wondering
where i am
and why you're not beside me

i'm beside myself, love.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

my mother was a bruise-taker. she was a lightweight pro at the heavy blows. show her any ER on the west side and she'd show you every seat she'd ever sat in without my knowing. the day she left him was the day she stopped wearing make-up. when i was small, my mother posted our photos to the back of christmas cards like milk cartons. inside, descriptions of us, should we ever go missing. she was missing home and life before becoming a statistic. sidebar: did you know that black women are abused at a rate 35 percent higher than that of white women? fuck statistics. women are women and people who disrespect them are filthy. my mother discovered this when she came to my room after hearing my shrieking. i had thrown my puppy out of the window, convinced it could fly because i knew for sure that my mother could. my father was her launchpad. i'd never heard something so loud as sirens and the sounds of heart and jaw breaking simultaneously. i'm not a survivor. i learned to block shit out at an early age. my mother was a blindfolder. i could read fairy tales and bedtime stories before i could read evidence.


my grandmother could. my grandmother was a prayersayer. she was a champion of slinging her biblical weaponry in the face of danger and saying take. that. show her any page in the bible and she'd show you a verse that could save your fucking life. the day she felt my mother's features changing, she felt the impact before a hand was lifted. my grandmother took our last known address to her prayer circle warriors and praised up a beacon. she was no pacifist. she knew that some evils couldn't just be sung hymnals to so she gathered up the men in our family to front the artillery line of hope. they packed up a van to salvage what was left of my mother's scars. i am lucky. and thankful. that all that was taken from me was a stupid gold earring on the stupid seat of that rental.






i wasn't sure whether or not it was an exaggeration. but it was brought up at least once a year once i got old enough to deal with things.










© 2009 Marcea L. Brown. All rights reserved

i found the beginning of this poem... entry... thing in a journal entry from june 26, 2009.
that's all you need to know about this.


where will we put your love tonight?
there is no room in my heart;
my lungs are littered with "no's"
there are spaces between
where our arms touch
when you're standing beside
and reaching out for me.

where will we put your hurt?
the white that separates
the lines of every
love poem
i've ever thrown away
leaves a gaping hole
from here to chicago,
from there to the sea,
and maybe all those lines
will be swept away
by the underlying rip current
that no one ever sees.
i feel it every now and then
and get swept away
a heartbeat at a time,
but by the timei met you,
i'd already mastered
catching my own breath
and stilling my frantic thumping
with my tiny hands
and singing mantras in languages
meant to soothe my fever
and the waves.

where will we put your hurt?
there is red lightning
splitting the oakof our firmament.
there's aquiver in my step
that keeps me from
committing my sea legs
to walk on these fault lines
so when you ask me to bring you back
your heart,
so you can personally witness
that it is still beating
i can't help but hesitate.
so when it stops,
i know the
fault is all mine.
every line
and every syllable
sticks in my throat
and i've been
choking
on the words for
longer than i've known you;
you can hear the way
my chest echoes when i say
your name in that way
like i've
said it a million times
to too many faces
that knew i'd carry that line
to too many places
before it ended in the
lap pool of someone else's tears.
my fears
overshadowed everything
you could've been.
my skin
has never held anything but
my aching bones
and all you ever wanted
was to give me back my soul,
and give me love
to fill it up.
my instincts always kick in though.
and that current,
that Buckley current
that swept you under
so long ago
is the one i've been
swimming against
like trying to brave the storm
and all these natural disasters
only add to mynightmares
and my heart quakes
but i knowthey will never equal the ache
i can't cover up on your face
you've been asking lately
where i'm gonna put the blame.
you've been saying it will
take more than waves
to erase my name
from your lips.
you've been adding up all the times
i said i'm sorry
and the times i mightve actually meant it
you meant it
when you said you
would find a space near my heart
and plant yourself there
so when the next storm comes
and i find myself bare
i will notice
and i will put your love there.

certain words grow from my good intentions

words like distance can't touch us--

we are not unreachable

we are simply unfazed by roadblocks

i've gotten pretty good at

noticing the difference between words

like loveand infatuation.

this is clearly a case of both

i eat your Job stories

and remember how many times

i was tested before

i thought it might be a good time

to give in to the storm.

but you still had some things to teach me

like

some words are meant to stay rooted in the soul

and birth emotions that have no name

and wake your writing hand

to say promise me

you will never stop moving.

you tell me to consider myself

but i've always been selfish

in pleasing other people

so my good intentions end up

being just words

but your words are what drew me in

in the first place,

slapped me in the face

and forced me to stop saying 'no' so much.

i'm filling my pages with

the word 'yes',

it's been resounding from my chest walls

in symphonic single-syllable glory.

words grow from moments like this:

the second your lips left mine that last time,

there was a polymer glimmer

trailing me all the way backto the east coast.

so now every time i look back,

i see a donnie darko map line

leading me back to where my heart rests.

the only thing that saves me is the way i pour my heart

into that one sentence

we can't help but say

over and over again.