Letter for Jan

No I don’t think you were chicken not to speak
I think you
afraid I was mama as laser
seeking to eat out or change your substance
Mawulisa bent on destruction by threat
who might cover you
in a thick dark cloud of guilty symbols
smelling of sandalwood and old buffalo musk
of fiery offerings in the new moon’s chalice
that would seduce you open
turning erotic and delightful as you
went under for the third time
your own poetry and sweetness
masked and drying out
upon your lips.

I do not even know
who looks like you
of all the sisters who come to me
at nightfall
we touch each other in secret places
draw old signs and stories
upon each other’s back and proofread
each other’s ancient copy.

You did not come to me speaking
because you feared
me as I might have been
god mother grown affluent
with the payment of old debts
or because you imaged me
as quick chic cutting
your praise song shared
to ribbons
thankless and separate as stormy gulfs
where lightning raged to pierce your clit
with proud black anger

or to reject you back into your doubt
smothering you into acceptance
with my own own black song
coming over and over
as angry nightmares upon your pillow
to swallow you into confusion like a cherished berry
or buy you up at random with my electric body
shooting out rhythm and symbol
like lasers to burn you up and vanish
before the night.

When all the time
I would have loved you
speaking
being a woman full of loving
turned on
and a little bit raunchy
and heavy
with my own black song.