you still linger… hard to forget you, but I want to.
hard to move on, but I had to.
you are the dry rot of towels, a smell that remains regardless of the number of times we wash and bleach them.
constant without contact, abuse without words, the fact of life that dies to teach one more lesson while the heart is already breaking.
I had a dream that your oldest daughter found me, and hugged my neck so tight I lost my voice.
I didn’t know what to say or how to react… why was she here? I stood befuddled, amazed by how much she favored you, yet you always had your mark on your firstborn.
she walked, talked, and flashed her hands around the air like you, too. it was good but it wasn’t.
because the questions came… questions to which I had no answers, and could only say, “It was time for me to leave. I knew of no other way to keep myself from breaking.”
to a 20-year-old, this seems like abandonment and neglect, but it wasn’t, it isn’t. she hasn’t yet experienced pain so deep it keeps you from functioning in life—refusing to bathe or eat or love yourself.
she doesn’t know the sting of realizing you will never be the chosen one.
I left when this child was 15, and she wanted answers. “Ask your mother” seemed viciously vile. I always wondered what you told, are telling the children, what they think of me.
I don’t anymore. there’s no need. your oldest came to me in a dream, and she told me, “You are forgiven. I don’t blame you. I still love you.”
yet you linger… long… you are the dry rot of towels, a smell that remains regardless of the number of times we wash and bleach them.
regardless of the number of times we wash and bleach them, you linger.
she used to make me feel like the ends of a loaf of bread—lonely and untouched, a nuisance among false nutrition.
it took years for me to recognize that I was stuffed French Toast—quality breakfast—a delicacy across the world over.
to her, I would never be more, so I left. she would always see the ends of a loaf of bread—ever-present, first and last in line, dependable, yet too tough to swallow.
I am a four-course meal, never-ending hors d’oeuvres, and endless recipes of food for the soul. too bad she’ll never be full from me.
Photo by Birgith Roosipuu. In the photos, there is a bouquet of pink roses laid on a white surface. Gathered around the roses are five pink heart-shaped macarons and a mug of coffee with steamed milk.
He doesn’t like to celebrate Valentine’s Day; says it’s too commercialized and filled with people gunning to purchase items they’ll never buy again until next year. I agree and don’t agree at the same time. I am not into the capitalist side of the holiday; I am into the romance side of it. I planned a trip away from home — just the two of us (he often likes to do group activities with our boys and a few of our lady friends, but not this time), at one of the most luxurious AirBnBs you’ll find on this side of Maine. We live in Auburn, and this place is in Sanford — not even a two-hour drive for us.
In Auburn, Gray enjoys fishing, attending the balloon festivals, and visiting various farmers’ markets, but I want to try something different. I’ve booked a lovely two-bedroom cottage, not too far from Mousam View Place (where I’ve made reservations for dinner and wine tasting). We’ll also dive into a pottery session, play golf at the Sanford Country Club (shout out to my Godbrother Chance for the day pass), and explore the nightlife Sanford has to offer during the final throes of Winter.
If I didn’t take matters into my own hands, we’d be basking in one another’s presence in front of the 55-inch Roku SmartTV yet again on Valentine’s night. And while I love looking at my honey, I yearn for more. Ooh, here he comes now.
“Hey, love. How was work?”
Gray looks defeated from a day that pummeled him simultaneously, yet as soon as he lays eyes on Terrence, his entire mood changes, and his body relaxes.
“You know, same shit, different day. Dan hit us with yet another project that’s due early next week, and I am over his need to impress the upper echelon. Dude has such a comfy position and has no earthly idea how hard it is to cram project after project into a timeline of completion. It’s like talking to a deer in headlights — he’s clueless.”
Terrence shifts his body and raises himself from their boneless, tan-colored couch to meet Gray’s gaze.
“Love… I am not making light of your current situation, but it’s Valentine’s Day weekend, and you’re off tomorrow, so I’ve booked a day trip to Sanford. Now, before you say ‘No,’ don’t. I am not trying to hear it. I have a list of things planned, and I know you will love at least three of them, so… pack a bag, baby. We are getting out of Auburn for four days.
“What do you mean? What have you gone and done, Terrence? Shiiiit, I need a getaway. And you know I don’t rock with Valentine’s Day like that, but this sounds more like a mini vacation than anything else, so… I’ll let it slide… This time.
Terrence squeals with excitement and claps his hands together enthusiastically. He glues his body against Gray’s and showers him with tiny kisses. As soon as he turns to dash to their bedroom to grab his bags, Gray speaks again.
“I don’t know, though, Ter. I got this project that I really need to focus on. If I don’t have the numbers crunched and a gameplan for launching a compatible AI platform for our company, this luxurious lifestyle we have grown accustomed to may take a nosedive.”
“Says who?! Gray, I make more than enough at the gallery to cover us until you find another job, which you would in absolutely no time. So… again, there will not be a ‘No’ to this. It’s already done.”
Silence coats the room, and the two of them busy themselves with last-minute packing, eager for the romantic getaway. Terrence is getting his way.
I knew that he would try to weasel out of this before we could even get into it, but I was not having it! We work too hard, he especially, to not enjoy the fruits of our labor. And I can’t wait to snuggle up next to him tonight after we are settled into the comforts of the cottage.
This Valentine’s Day weekend, I will give the love of my life, the love of his life.
Back when I didn’t overthink things, I loved a woman who lied so much, mythomania could have been her middle name.
We were never going to make it. I made up stories for entertainment; she made up stories to cover her ass.
Eventually, one of us was going to break, and one of us did.
Baby Tre in a fighter pose. I have no clue who took this photo, perhaps one of the hospital nurses or a family member? April 17, 1980.
What Was I Thinking?
I must’ve known the world would be a battlefield.
At a few hours old, I’d already prepared myself to fight; hands squared into position of protection.
What was I thinking as I dreamed alongside a mother who pushed me into being?
Could I have been dreaming of ways to right wrongs without a working definition of them?
Did I know about all of the nastiness dripping from the hearts of men, and how that coldness would shift God’s creations—morph them into living devils?
Many ages passed me by, and now, I find myself standing atiptoe, waiting for change that doesn’t look like it’s going to come.
Scattered Words: Poems for Jernee Timid Loadholt is available now! Have you gotten your copy? Hardcover|eBook
AI-Generated image: A tangled web of two beautiful African American women; one with a pixie haircut, and the other has a curly afro. They are standing next to a handsome, African American & Native American man in the shadows. In the background, there are skyscrapers around them—the feel of any downtown area of a major city is what the image depicts.
Caesuras
it was in the caesura, the pause of his poem when I knew his pain.
we carried the same kind—blameless, deep, unknown to anyone else.
it felt balanced to have a partner who knew what I meant when I said, “I can’t talk about this, I have to write it out,” and not further question the conversation.
losing him, brought me her a couple years later, and she knew what I thought before I could express it; a poet, a performer. I think I fell for her voice before falling into her heart.
but we shouldn’t have been what we were, and I never got over being second best.
every so often, I think about him and her, and the pauses I have to take when I see their faces in my dreams. I am here because they were there.
the blame game
the day broke through my armor and punched a hole in me… I stumbled and wasted away down to the ankles… it hurts to walk. I’ve never suffered a blow this heavy to the mind during the “BRR” months before.
the beginning of the year isn’t supposed to feel this way. tell that to the patients who only want to hear what they want to hear—in the medical field, when your insurance cost rises and your deductible and out-of-pocket maximum do, too…
anyone around gets blamed for their pockets being just as empty as yours.
Have you gotten your copy of Séduire: Serial Tales & Flash Fiction at Lulu in E-Book& Paperback versions, or Amazon in Paperback(only) yet?
I am on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing, as I discussrecent events related to my previous place of employment, including racism and discrimination, the growth I experienced after resigning from that company, and the foibles and overall experiences of life. I welcome your visit.
A Cornered Gurl 
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