that man loved that little militant woman

that man loved that

little militant woman

every word she said

he examined and approved

she was mean and carrying their 6th child

she cut no corners

spat at the world and claimed the foul

she talked of burning los angeles down….

 

and he smiled

at the way she preached

at the way the late evening fell like water around her

her sharp eyes

her clear mouth her small hands

and in the interim of her rants

her breath marking the minutes of his life

he loved her for being alive

 

she said the white man was the devil

and that she didn’t trust foreign blacks

that crips were soldiers

and all negros in prison should be freed

he nodded

fixed her scarf

smoothed her hair

asked her if she needed anything

and she continued about the truth 

the teeth of it and not compromising your blackness

or your message 

he agreed wholeheartedly

 

they scared me

scared me like an angry brotha jumping out of

the bushes breathing through his nostrils

 

then he told me

while she attended one of the children

that she was at the spoken word festival

and when she entered wearing a golden wrap

pushing a stroller with her chin high

pulling africa behind her

separating the unholy waters of america

that the whole place stopped and gasped

they had never seen such beauty

nor had they seen a woman so sure and strong

he said i should have seen it

everybody holding their breath as she brought the truth

and on that note we studied her

shared a moment of silence in that parking lot

looking at her

and i looked at him dreaming of her

and i looked at him arming himself with her words

i looked at him hoping his daughters will be like her

i looked at him pushing the incipient dark away from her face

and placing early stars in strategic positions around her

i looked at him quickened and constrained

on the verge of speaking in tongues

i watched him still blind and wandering in the amazement

that he had her

and belonged to her

and that she was so close to him

 

and yes

they scared me

scared me like a group of brothas 

lifting their shirts

comparing bullet wounds

 

so we let the conversation fall after a while

let the jazz take its place

watched a window go dark and the crowds thin

and walking away down that well lit street

i thought of what i would  one day like in my life

and the odd magnificent way the universe sometimes

reveals itself and arranges its stars

and tells me to hold on