When I told him I don’t give blowjobs on my knees
he said, here you go with that
feminist shit, deemed my demands
for equality as insatiable.
I told him he was no God.
He ain’t create the stars
and sun, fish and bread.
Told him he too hellbent
on misunderstanding,
‘Cause only one holy name
can demand that I bow, hands clasped
around Him, shuddering with ghosts,
my divine tongue oscillating in praise.
And when I told him to vote opposite
the anti-abortion candidate in his city,
he asked, but what is the other
candidate’s plan for Black people?
I didn’t remind him that state control
of me is state control of him,
that under God we performed ablutions,
asked for blessings, forgiveness,
jumped the broom
that laid in the church closet,
vowed to unspool ourselves
and become one.
We didn’t pray together that night.
I kneeled, hands joined at my chest,
swayed like a pendulum
as I spoke with God.
This is the part of the poem
where I’m expected to be honest
about how many times I begged
him to consider my existence.
I lost count.
I was taught that begging
long enough will teach
someone to listen.
In other words, I was ravenous.
But even after God told me
to leave the first time,
there I was again,
spreading my unsanctified mouth wide.
Night Terrors
When I sleep poorest,
I’m reminded of him.
How every three hours
my body was a clock.
Sat erect in my black bedroom,
checked his location,
our bank account,
that my hands had stopped
shaking, that I’d fallen
asleep for at least ten minutes.
Most people have night terrors,
I know, how it trembles from sleep,
jolts from slumber,
and sometimes, I praise my mind
for its ability to forget
the monster it aroused
the night before.
Sometimes, I pray
he has recovered,
keeping money in his wallet
instead of stacked blue and red
chips, tremors vibrating through him.
When I sleep poorest,
the dream recurs.
I’m wearing an ivory dress,
much like the one now hanging
in a consignment shop,
foundation the wrong hue,
face peeling like an orange,
and every time I touch
the pieces, they slip out
of my hands.
The whole dream, I’m running
through a wedding venue,
dress hiked up to my knees,
searching for him.
No one wants to read
about loving someone
who sometimes becomes someone
else, I know, because no one wants to remember
how it splattered them
on the floor, limbs sprawled
and gangly, gripping at the carpet,
stomach clawing from the insides.
I get it. But this is a poem
saying night terrors and loving
a stranger are one and the same.
I’m saying, each time I dreamt,
I was running and sweating
and searching for someone different.
***
Photograph of Arriel Vinson by Reece T. Williams.
