Looking For Gold | Calling

Calling

i didn’t call you because i died

that’s what writers do

they lie to you

and on paper they die

to open and break

and fill spaces between words

i couldn’t call you because

the sheet swallowed me

whole

the paper sucked me

whore

and i was too scattered without periods

over the page – shuffled dice

zahraa – or is it nard

blank at every throw

blank means you cannot leave –

not yet/ so early

lisa badri – stay

i couldn’t tear myself and

severe the lines –

waiting on paper is womandatory –

like the waiting each month

waiting on words becomes the

fetish in which we dress

our womanhood

our tongues

dialing numbers was never my play –

i dial words –

and no matter that you will

only hear the lies that crawl

behind each heart beat

lies that race me to your ears

that cannot be on paper

there is no room/no spaces

for littlewhitelies

it is too crowded with

the pounding between my breasts

and the sound of my name on your lips –

covered in honey too sweet honey too sweet –

still crowded with truth so naked

no skin to dress the pink –

littlewhitelies are not made for paper

they hurt so bad/cheat my woman

to save face

to keep dignity where it belongs

sacred on sheets and lined

littlewhitelies are not made for paper

that grows inside trees with four limbs

porcelianhoneymustardpinkebonymolasses

peeled off – layer at a time –

sweatlovebloodandall

i didn’t call you because i was peeling

your layer in the dark reminding me

"i am Black and i am beautiful"*

in the cool blackness inside

and now that january is over –

january which you said would be

too cold – too warm –

i know we don’t do either/or the same way

i sink in the middle and you

choose curbs

i died and you forgot my calling

and the stories we made inside when

you were looking the other way –

the stories you will never know

as i write this and wash –

initiation rites to wrap me all –

because i didn’t tell you the last time

you called

that writers are buried in

shrouds of paper

*From Anne Sexton’s poem "Consorting With Angels"