PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Deep chocolate cherry to mahogany

brown cinnamon sugar

cane made of oak... or any other

wood made of brown.

Sometimes creamy like mocha;

skinned tanned by the light of the

diaspora;

body drenched in melanin.

And cause my skin appears the

same,

it seems a shame that I can't

let you in.

See, because, sometimes, when I had

seen't you,

I had thought that I had seen my father

and since he wasn't on the scene

to be seen,

I think sometimes

I might have treated you kind of mean.



But wait, wait, hold up

'cause see, it was never my intention

to act with dissention,

because you need to understand

how much I have loved

you.

And though my love relations

have reflected men descending from a

plethora of nations,

my love began with you.



My mama loved you as well,

over more than a dozen love spells.

But between me and mama,

between me and her, see,

he was our

first love-thirst.

And in her youth, mama was indeed thirsty;

parched.

And you thought if you

made her back arch

while whispering sweet nothings

that it would compensate for the day before

when you told her she was "nothing".

Bruises on her left eye,

forcing her to lie about

how I kicked her,

trying to salvage her dignity

by blaming her injury on poor li'l

me.



However, 18 months plus

40 weeks after I was conceived

it was all mama could do to pick me up

and leave.

And then my thirst begins.

It starts as an itchy throat,

dry from missed visits.

I would ask for cherry lozenges and

you would give me broken promises

and I was always asking my mama

"where my daddy is?"

And though I can intellectualize

that I know you ain't him,

I must explain how much it

hurt me

to have my

very first love

desert me.