Poem to the Poet Sapphire
Sapphire, I feel like I owe you one.
Your struggle is more than
I will ever swallow.
Mother Earth, Father moon
you sing
this Sister ain't comin home anytime soon.
Sapphire, you’ve left me thirsty.
I know that
I don’t owe
you anything but a critical reading,
but honestly sister,
your words make me feel like I should be bleeding.
Like the world owes me a beating.
Only one or twice or trice
has semen splattered me
without a declaractive
Yes!
Only the same number of times
has my mothers screaming
pained me between my
Breasts!
I can’t get bent
when my father punched a hole in the wall above my head.
I was being insolent.
It was in my halo above my head.
My ego. A lesson.
My dad never left me for dead.
Sapphire, my cat is the ruler of our home.
He eats salmon.
I’ve always had Home.
Your life is so unknown.
Your accent pierces me:
The Emily Dickenson of
Popeye’s Fried Chicken.
The streets that you call Home
resonate tones that my ears have blocked.
I remember driving through Bed Stuy.
I heard a Voice, shrill, SCREAMING at a man it quivered:
“You don’t love me fuckin bitch ass nigger.”
And I had that desperate feeling in my stomach.
the rawest of shivers.
Fight or flight.
I left her laid.
I threw her away.
I ran away from her concrete window sill.
I ran away from myself.
I didn’t stop to make that woman still
from her miseducation.
Her food stamped ration.
Her “What’s Love Got to Do With It?”
Her pain her passion.
I took the volume of her voice as alien.
Instead of a real woman.
I left her for dead and forgot about it,
and ask myself why people get forgotten.
The only strife I’ve known in
my life is conversational drama.
I’ve never had to be a baby’s mama.
Or a blue collar worker.
Never have been less.
I’ve never had to beg for his money by lifting my dress.
Never had to make my knuckles red
by trying to break off of my daddys bed.
Never had to mop the floor.
Never thought woman was synonym for whore.
Never stopped fighting for a landlord to fix my lighting.
Never had black eye sockets.
Never had nothing in my pockets.
Sapphire, your life seems so cruel.
I would put my fingers in oil and annoint you.
I would cook you dinner by choice.
I would sit you at my table and soothe you with my voice.
I would feed you from my garden.
I would beg you for your pardon.
I would sooth your tears that rain.
“Your body brings my body pain.”
Sapphire and Cristal would
rattle the bones of every battle.
Our opposites would translate as orgasm.
We would scream YES and NO together
and ask the question what does that mean.
We would be mean.
We would be the sound in every womans scream.
Our voices would pry the hearts
of people that are too comfortable.
We would drag them out.
You would make them suffer.
I would give them food.
You’d call me a buffer.
I’d call you a bitch.
You’d take my hair and twist.
Your hair is already twisted.
I’d like you around my waist.
These words are abuse.
I am the white woman, you are the noose.
You are so beautiful.
Your words are huge.
I am opaque.
Are we the truth?
Is it invalid Sapphire?
Can I ever be a woman now?
I’ve read your words and they’ve read my bones.
I feel chalky.
Inside and out.
I feel like anything that I can make
should be put to stake
and burned because
I’ve held less hurt.
Sapphire, how I’d love to be your brother.
Perhaps our struggle with one another could
be called “Sculpture?”
-Cristal Rose Stevens copyright 2007
Your struggle is more than
I will ever swallow.
Mother Earth, Father moon
you sing
this Sister ain't comin home anytime soon.
Sapphire, you’ve left me thirsty.
I know that
I don’t owe
you anything but a critical reading,
but honestly sister,
your words make me feel like I should be bleeding.
Like the world owes me a beating.
Only one or twice or trice
has semen splattered me
without a declaractive
Yes!
Only the same number of times
has my mothers screaming
pained me between my
Breasts!
I can’t get bent
when my father punched a hole in the wall above my head.
I was being insolent.
It was in my halo above my head.
My ego. A lesson.
My dad never left me for dead.
Sapphire, my cat is the ruler of our home.
He eats salmon.
I’ve always had Home.
Your life is so unknown.
Your accent pierces me:
The Emily Dickenson of
Popeye’s Fried Chicken.
The streets that you call Home
resonate tones that my ears have blocked.
I remember driving through Bed Stuy.
I heard a Voice, shrill, SCREAMING at a man it quivered:
“You don’t love me fuckin bitch ass nigger.”
And I had that desperate feeling in my stomach.
the rawest of shivers.
Fight or flight.
I left her laid.
I threw her away.
I ran away from her concrete window sill.
I ran away from myself.
I didn’t stop to make that woman still
from her miseducation.
Her food stamped ration.
Her “What’s Love Got to Do With It?”
Her pain her passion.
I took the volume of her voice as alien.
Instead of a real woman.
I left her for dead and forgot about it,
and ask myself why people get forgotten.
The only strife I’ve known in
my life is conversational drama.
I’ve never had to be a baby’s mama.
Or a blue collar worker.
Never have been less.
I’ve never had to beg for his money by lifting my dress.
Never had to make my knuckles red
by trying to break off of my daddys bed.
Never had to mop the floor.
Never thought woman was synonym for whore.
Never stopped fighting for a landlord to fix my lighting.
Never had black eye sockets.
Never had nothing in my pockets.
Sapphire, your life seems so cruel.
I would put my fingers in oil and annoint you.
I would cook you dinner by choice.
I would sit you at my table and soothe you with my voice.
I would feed you from my garden.
I would beg you for your pardon.
I would sooth your tears that rain.
“Your body brings my body pain.”
Sapphire and Cristal would
rattle the bones of every battle.
Our opposites would translate as orgasm.
We would scream YES and NO together
and ask the question what does that mean.
We would be mean.
We would be the sound in every womans scream.
Our voices would pry the hearts
of people that are too comfortable.
We would drag them out.
You would make them suffer.
I would give them food.
You’d call me a buffer.
I’d call you a bitch.
You’d take my hair and twist.
Your hair is already twisted.
I’d like you around my waist.
These words are abuse.
I am the white woman, you are the noose.
You are so beautiful.
Your words are huge.
I am opaque.
Are we the truth?
Is it invalid Sapphire?
Can I ever be a woman now?
I’ve read your words and they’ve read my bones.
I feel chalky.
Inside and out.
I feel like anything that I can make
should be put to stake
and burned because
I’ve held less hurt.
Sapphire, how I’d love to be your brother.
Perhaps our struggle with one another could
be called “Sculpture?”
-Cristal Rose Stevens copyright 2007