I AM PREGNANT WITH POTENTIAL

April 1, 2008

I’m pregnant with potential but I birth silence

And just ‘cause you slap me on my ass doesn’t mean I’ll scream

for you

my private is braided into pigtails decorated

with plastic barrettes

and

yellow rubber bands

the little girl in me is afraid

but the woman in me will kill you

while cooking breakfast

that’s that Scorpio shit

you get caught up on wanting to

ménage a trios

my metaphor, five, six times a lady third eye evade me

we drown in lyrical libations never played on radio stations

hands grow impatient

and I want to be sweet for you, baby

but your spit no longer drips liquid sugar

teeth are rotting and falling as I speak

to my spirit alone with my things-to-do-list

standing on my spine before realizing your feet are too heavy

for my back so I simply erase your name

from the paper

wet the dead tree with my tears in hopes to grow a dozen

more

of you so afraid

to let me show you how a real woman could

my wholeness will guide you to the

half of you

you thought you didn’t have

so you only offered the little that your

body allowed

and in the end it’s never enough

‘cause

I wanna smell like it

taste like it feel like it walk barefoot inside it

wrap it around my waist wear it in the shower take it

home with me

share it with my girls play an Aretha CD to it eat it sweat it

believe it African-dance to it wash my face with it hold it

love it

grow it out my stomach rock my Adidas with it let it run

down my

back lick it live it shake a tambourine and say amen

because of it

steal it if I have to

melt chocolate on top of it

just want it to be sweet, baby

sweet like you like we can be

like revolution

-Jessica Care Moore

I AM A WORK IN PROGRESS

I am a work in progress

for asha bandele

-jessica care moore

We are born writing

but will learn to wait

An agonizing line of blood will follow our future

and never find us

mistaking our memories for actual events

reason and common sense will never make an appearance

opening the door after a temporary disappearance

the fisher man showed up in your world again

guess that’s why our female heroes got fancy

addictive names like

Heroin

You were born writing little girl

but you will learn to wait

the lines will appear as currents

events to fool you into submission

the grocery store

the post office

the unemployment line

the local train platform at two in the morning

this is where you will find poetry

screaming between the air inside your walk

this is how you will learn to kiss and paint

nurse babies and call “next”!

on the ball court

your name will be one African syllable too many

for jane who didn’t do her lower case b

phoenix assignment

pretending that she just can’t pronounce Kenya or Brendesha

with america’s alphabet

this is the moment you find meaning in cuss words

you will take cuts attempting to find the front line

your scent will leave hunters running in the wrong direction

as your home becomes brick your home becomes thick

clocks will confuse the moon into thinking

dark is a synonym for gloom

you will stay still as your body leaves the room

for the first time in weeks

strength will appear from behind the sun

they will call you a freak and you will believe them

you were born writing and will soon learn to run

we are born writing

but will learn to wait

the wind will pause our dreams

lies suddenly sound like laughter

we will survive in here

or after

skeleton woman break dancing

into poses resembling roses

emulating an African nose

that never smelled ivory up close

this is when you will cry the most

learn to gather your tears into your fists

realizing water will never grant your wishes

reflections are always true but never wet

so we kiss ourselves

till our lips turn dry and honest

you will hear faint pieces of your voice

in the electricity of a phone line

screaming for freedom

in the middle of a message or a voyage

never delivered during long distance

conversations or kidnappings

this is the moment your fingers

will find your hand

and hang up on your past beliefs

what is the white courtesy phone?

Why can’t I ever find one?

the lines will appear as a sound waving

goodbye

when you jump off the side of the ship

in the footsteps of the march of tears

funeral processions will break into the hustle

digging up mudered soil

that forgot this was a man’s world

and daddy needs a son baby

everbody will wear black

forgetting this is your damn birth day party

There was a time we didn’t have to wait

nine months for our children to be born

we just believed they would come

and waited for them to quickly leave

I’ll take the young pretty one

with the chisled brown lips

for 5 axes 3 pigs 2 arrows 1 chicken and a bushel of wire

this is when you’ll carve your first pencil from wood

and draw blood

this is when your story is erased

I was born writing

but will be taught to wait

I am an incomplete sentence

a work in progress

and I’m not finished

yet