Dark Ones//Old Dog

(Anonymous)

Dark ones 

In our most intimate moments,

She strokes along the bridge of my nose with her fingers 

And delights in the small, pointed tip. She stretches my curls 

And marvels at their length.

She asks why I hide from the sun on cloudless days. 

I say, I’m scared of its relentless shine,

And rays that give warmth but steal light.

It’s a dreadful thing, to burn. 

When I look at the rainbow of women in my family -  

A wave of green eyes, golden skin, and pink nipples -  

And I arrange us in my head,  

I am last, always.

Their boyfriends, lovers, and baby-fathers.

Are a locker room of towering bodies and

Hard hearts - 

Black hole men who hunger for light (and fair).

Insatiable, listless,

Tall, dark, and handsome.

Sometimes, I want them look at me, and stumble over their words

I want women’s hands to linger on mine, sink in the softness of my skin. 

See the blush bloom on my cheeks as I smile demurely to the ground -

But the brown in my skin is too bitter to ever be sweet.

Old Dog 

He loves me, but 

He’s lonely. 

I imagine him, a husk, 

Alone in his barely furnished apartment.

My vision blears at supper. I am also alone.

He loves me, but 

He’s mournful. 

I imagine the thoughts of her 

Stealing his breath throughout the day, getting

Through days, slowly passing, with gritted teeth. 

I have my mother’s hands. 

When I look at them, I see them held defensively  

Over her fetaled body, enfolded like a rosebud. 

He loves me, but 

He’s old-school. 

I imagine his eyes trailing

Periodically to a phone that rarely rings, 

Its silence sinking him further into solitude. 

Those sharp, shrewd eyes that so closely resemble my own - 

I have inherited them like heartache.

I think of the shake of my hands when I answer his calls

And all that is unsaid between us.  

The words that die before they can leave my mouth,

And are buried under my rosebush tongue. 

When I smile, there are scarlet stains. 

The sight makes his body sag with shame. 

Sometimes, quietly, I think he’s earned it,   

The loneliness. 

But this space between us is filled with so much love. 

This is a peculiar and uncomfortable truth.

The thought enters my mind like profanity, 

To reach for him, and latch onto what I can – 

A hand, shoulder, or rib -

But I bristle with indignation 

And bury the thought.