My Heart Waketh

I sleep, but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night. (Song of Solomon 5:2, KJV)

I came this morning, thinking, that perhaps I would clean up some of the blood spilled here, but alas, it's not to be. There's always so much to say, so many broken walls, torn pieces of me. But today I will speak of a brick, strong and brown, baked in the Caribbean sun. A solid thing of a man, God's gift to me. It was he who looked past my dust and saw my wings.

That was okay. Cool even. Many people, even civilian people who will never fly looked close enough to see them before. But he wanted more than to just look at them. "Let me see. Turn around." That was unacceptable.

I ran. I screamed. Yet, I could not get off the ground. No matter how much of a start I got, I stayed rooted to the earth. Beside him. "Why are you doing that?" he asked, picking Sharon Roses and Valley Lilies and stuffing them in my pockets.

That made me run faster, take another pass. "I'm trying to go, to fly away. But I can't. So you must go. Go now, before it's too late."

He laughed at me. A chocolate, delicious laugh. I felt sick. How would I ever live without that sound? "I'm not leaving," he said, with those ridiculously beautiful eyes. "So you might as well sit down." He did, as if for an example. "I'm not going anywhere. I love you."

My throat closed up. I hadn't escaped in time. Maybe he could still get away. I pushed him with my words, shoved him as hard as I could.

He didn't budge. "Stop it," he said as the insults hurled past him. "I love you."

"Don't love me. Please. You don't know what you're getting into. I'm crazy." My wings released then, filled the room. He saw it all--pink, purple, gold, blue--the whole beautiful mess of me. I closed my eyes, knowing that when I opened them, he, like all the others, would be gone.

Blink. Peek.

He's still there, eating a pork chop. "Girl, please. Sit down. Let's talk. Communicate. That's what people do, you know. What kind of people have you been dealing with?"

You don't want to know.

Charles Barkley was on the TV. Boxing out, posting up, refusing to move. The Brown Mound of Rebound. Just like him. He licked his fingers, smiled at me. I shuddered. What kind of game was this? Love? Please. He had to get out of here. Right now. And I knew just the thing.

I sat next to him. He took my hand, diluted my focus. But it had to be done.

"You ready to talk to me? To tell me what's wrong? Not that it matters." He took another bite, real close to the bone.

It would matter. It always did. I grinned bittersweetly, knowing this kindness would end. This wonder. "I'm pregnant."

He kept chewing, his twenty-year-old eyes still locked on the TV. "That's it? I thought you were dying or something. Just a baby? I can deal with that." He took my hand and kissed it.

I stared at the barbecue sauce smeared on my skin. The hope in me, the fool that I thought long dead, yawned and stretched her legs. His heartbeat knocked at the door of me like police at a crack house.

He put down his sandwich, stared at me, into me, with talking eyes.

Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled.

My stomach turned as Hope rubbed her eyes, waking her long slumbering sisters. Faith roused first, smiling, her kinky braids pointing in every direction. Open the door, honey, she whispered to me. He isn't alone. You Know Who is out there too.

He kissed my eyes. "It'll be okay. We can make it. God will help us."

Love sprang to her feet, knocked me out of the way. Ran to the door. There was smoke whistling in from the cracks. I tried to call her back, to tell her she'd be burned, but she ran faster, grabbed the red-hot handle and swung it wide. The man I'd mistaken for a boy came in. His clothes were not burnt. He didn't even smell like smoke. There was another with him, One with hair like white wool. One like the Son of Man.

I hung my head, but He held it up. "Fear not."

"But the baby isn't his."

He smiled. "I know. The baby is mine."

With that, He was gone from sight, leaving me in a snug, brown embrace, showered with pork-chop-and-macaroni-and-cheese kisses. I knuckled the grit out of my eyes, out of my heart. Though it terrified me, it was good to be awake.

The Best Poem

Last night, I told you the best poem that ever came to me. It was divine, yet I made no move for my pen.

It was just for you.

Though I doubt you thought it more than another useless diatribe, I hope for one second that you saw me once more, painting words in technicolor with my wingtips in slow motion.

I hope for one minute, you laughed with me and not at me. But even if you didn't, the verse was yours. The best poem I ever wrote.

I can't remember one word.