Imani Tolliver

the hardest part about love

the fallen cross beneath my belly
is the most difficult part about love

i use eight fingers
to part the pink and brown
run one thumb across the slit
and begin
it is the opening
that is the hardest part
that is the hardest part about love

it is not fucking
fucking is easy
easy to forget tomorrow
and my last name
when a purple and brown dick
is rubbing the in of me
like a wet thumb on a djimbe
cumming and breathing together like that

the hardest part hides behind the space
before cumming and after the stories, the funk, the fat
and those bumps on my inner thigh
it is near that part

it is the part
forgetting my father’s face in my lap
the part that swallowed the promised wedding ring
that let a dreaded preacher in
who licked prayers into me
like he really meant it

it is the part that keeps my hands in back pockets
the day after i touch
cause i don’t want anyone to know

it is the hardest part
the nexus of nightmares
the power place
the daily news
the place where i cry
the place where i sleep
the color of lipstick
the itch on the bus
the squirm at meetings
the cough of a red, red blood
the place where i count lovers
the darkest hair on my body
my most sincere muscle
the sweet nutmeg sister that humps away memory
the brown bottom drawer where i store promises
the dimple at the foot of my bed

my brightest smile
my constellation of tears

it is the hardest part about love
the opening part
the trusting muscle
the metaphor of my story
the pink pocket of dreams

wet

the crying game is over

put light there

keep the tonic pure

this is power

my body belongs to me again

there was a trade

but i severed the agreement

now i emerge

made new again

bones, strong

and limber, so limber

i see myself now

in the clean reflection

smell of seawater and wildflowers

my locks, a dark, dark brown

my hands and feet, capable and wide

i am new

beautiful, essential

in the morning

see everything shine

these hands

my mother said my hair was like moss

difficult to comb

to keep into the pillow at the crown of my head

so she melted it fine

and pulled, pulled it free from itself

thousands of nooses without the knots

as the years went on

and i became more courageous

i cut the nooses free

gathered and twisted and curled and colored the knots

the forbidden, the embarrassing

the backdoor, the kitchen

into sun, agate, dark rum, fizzy mexican coca cola

and north african oil with herbs at the bottom of wide, dolloped vases

warm glass, beginning as teardrops

fallen now, have been the colors of my hair

i took the stories that made me

out of the scream of my arrival

the vinyl and chrome couch of 1977

in front of the 6 million dollar man

and the bad news bears on tv

the girl, the mushroom, tiny, hiding

hooded small thing that i was

touched i was, in the worst ways

eating tears, eating doughnuts,

eating anything sweet that would fill me

into someone larger than i could imagine

into someone strong

into backbone and healer

into the visitor who,

if you were not looking

would tell you all about yourself and herself too

into this soft body without children

except the one i hold close between my breasts

that i screamed into making

scream from between the lips that suffered

from between the lips that would not speak

the lips tasted by the lips

that would taste hers

scream, scream, scream

wide open

now, these lips curved, plentiful, fleshy and pink

tell and tell and tell

because they were told to shut up long ago

the voice box

the brown and red voice box held in this neck

that came from two brown necks

and two before that

was called a white girl

an oreo

            who you trying to be, anyway?

they told me the color of my voice

before i was able to get my bearings

before i knew the language to fight back

they told me that i was far away from them

far from who i thought i was

white girl

white girl

            you trying’ to be a white girl

but all i knew was my mother’s tongue

all i knew came from the alice in wonderland records

that taught me how to read

i tried to abandon

natural geographics and dictionaries

pippi and the mysteries and the magazines

for a language that was more acceptable

but my mother tongue, i could not shake

it was a tattoo that i modified but never abandoned

so i read aloud

listening to the nuances i created

the resonance that burnishes the girl voice

with tobacco and time

rum and crying

into this voice you hear now

with its gravel lows and birdlike highs

that sings when none’s looking

to jesus and lovers i trust

i am looking below my knees now

and there are scars

but i have decided

to turn the clusters and stripes

into constellations

into galaxies

i will have the scars, the stars

make an order

something larger than me or my shins

into orion, zeus, mars and leo

so take what shame tried to make

into your hands and turn it into something else

change your color

to pink, to blue, to black

to your wish

into something new

something of your own making

perhaps you will be as lucky as i

when a new friend remarks to your mother

            you gave birth to imani?

no, she gave birth to herself.

defending frida

people ask me
what the big deal is
with frida

saw the movie, but i don’t get it
what was the war they were fighting back then

communism
the classes

her back
her baby in ribbons
diego’s dick divining the wet and pretty
gangrene
tobacco
liquor
love

i don’t know why she is popular with other people but i will tell you why i love frida

despite a famous husband she, supportive in a rebozo and garden flowers in her hair,

painted
despite the judas body,

she painted

the body that cut their son in pieces, no glory
just pieces of a boy
and still she painted

her diego
found the flesh of women irresistible
as did she
the sweet of it
irresistible

i wonder what touching frida would be like
if you were her lover
would you caution the seams
the cut and sewn parts
would she hold the meat of you
in the same mouth warmed by posole, chile

would her lick be soft
as a sliver of flan
with caramel at the tip
or would you have to coax the sweet
peel back the bristle
like the brutal, but succulent agave
to find the tender meat waiting
supple, warm
becoming the taste

of what tastes it

i have so much to judge myself by
how much i exercise
what i weigh
whether i eat meat,

enough vegetables
were they organic
were they justly farmed
did i keep my tongue
in heaven today
am i telling the truth

am i being responsible

authentic

true

i never knew frida
but her paintings follow me
they come as cards, trinkets
from women, always
from my mother, mostly

and the jewelry
the paintings
the tiny altars
the boxes and books

tell me, speak
you must speak

cough the ribbons
of your tongue free
lick the flesh that calls you

ink your fingertips

when you cannot find a brush
find walls

when canvas is not nearby
love hard and mighty

put flowers in your hair
the big, gorgeous ones
from your garden
wear the colors of your own flag

create when baffled
create when sorrowful.
afraid. brave. brilliant.

abandon the prickle of fear
and be of your own making
begin from deep, deep
feel the tremor
the push, the work root
the quaking blossom
of who you really are

let light
let you
be free