The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni (14 page)

those things

which you so laughingly call

hands are in fact two

brown butterflies fluttering

across the pleasure

they give

my body

i remember learning you jump

in your sleep and smile

when you wake up

at first you cuddle

then one arm across my stomach

then one leg touching my leg then

you turn your back

but you smile when you wake up

i was surprised to know you don't care

if your amp burns all night and that you could

play
ohmeohmy
over and over again just

because you remembered

i discovered you don't like hair

in your bathroom sink and never step

your wet feet onto a clean rug

you will answer your phone

but you don't talk too long and you do

rub my toes and make faces

while you talk

and your voice told her anyway

that i was there

you can get up at three and make sandwiches

and orange juice and tell jokes

you sometimes make incoherent sentences

you snore

and you smile when you wake up

i know you cry when you're hurt

and curse when you're angry

and try when you don't feel

like it and smile at me

when you wake up

these things i learned through

a simple single touch

when fleshes clashed

it was very pleasant

not having you around

this afternoon

not that i don't love you

and want you and need you

and love loving and wanting and needing you

but there was a certain peace

when you walked out the door

and i knew you would do something

you wanted to do

and i could run

a tub full of water

and not worry about answering the phone

for your call

and soak in bubbles

and not worry whether you would want something

special for dinner

and rub lotion all over me

for as long as i wanted

and not worry if you had a good idea

or wanted to use the bathroom

and there was a certain excitement

when after midnight you came home

and we had coffee

and i had a day of mine

that made me as happy

as yours did you

when i nap

usually after 1:30

because the sun comes

in my room then

hitting the northeast

corner

i lay at the foot

of my bed and smell

the sweat of your feet

in my covers

while i dream

on my bedroom wall hang a poster

two pen and inks one oil one framed photograph

something with a lot of color that i don't

quite know its substance

and you

cause i got tired of bathing and oiling

and waiting for you to be too tired or

too drunk and when i realized it was your smile

that turned me on i engraved it

just above the shelf where the ash tray sits

i cut your eyes and ears and nose away

leaving your lips to open me

to a very energetic

sober brother

i wanted to take

your hand and run with you

together toward

ourselves down the street to your street

i wanted to laugh aloud

and skip the notes past

the marquee advertising “women

in love” past the record

shop with “The Spirit

In The Dark” past the smoke shop

past the park and no

parking today signs

past the people watching me in

my blue velvet and i don't remember

what you wore but only that i didn't want

anything to be wearing you

i wanted to give

myself to the cyclone that is

your arms

and let you in the eye of my hurricane and know

the calm before

and some fall evening

after the cocktails

and the very expensive and very bad

steak served with day-old baked potatoes

after the second cup of coffee taken

while listening to the rejected

violin player

maybe some fall evening

when the taxis have passed you by

and that light sort of rain

that occasionally falls

in new york begins

you'll take a thought

and laugh aloud

the notes carrying all the way over

to me and we'll run again

together

toward each other

yes?

there is a hunger

often associated with pain

that you feel

when you look at someone

you used to love and enjoyed

loving and want

to love again

though you know you can't

that gnaws at you

as steadily as a mosquito

some michigan summer

churning his wings

through your window screen

because the real world

says you are a strong woman

and anyway he never thought you'd really miss him

dreams have a way

of tossing and turning themselves

around and the times

make requirements that we dream

real dreams for example

i wanted to be

a sweet inspiration in my dreams

of my people but the times

require that i give

myself willingly and become

a wonder woman

sometimes you hear a question like “what is

your responsibility as an unwed mother”

and some other times you stand sweating profusely before

going on stage and somebody says “but you are used

to it”

or maybe you look into a face you've never seen

or never noticed and you know

the ugly awful loneliness of being

locked into a mind and body that belong

to a
name
or
non-name
—not that it matters

cause
you
feel and
it
felt but you have

a planetrainbussubway—it doesn't matter—something

to catch to take your arms away from someone

you might have thought about

putting them around if you didn't

have all that shit to take you safely away

and sometimes on rainy nights you see

an old white woman who maybe you'd really care about

except that you're a young Black woman

whose job it is to kill maim or seriously

make her question

the validity of her existence

and you look at her kind of funny colored eyes

and you think

if she weren't such an aggressive bitch she would see

that if you weren't such a Black one

there would be a relationship but anyway—it doesn't matter

much—except you started out to kill her and now find

you just don't give a damn cause it's all somewhat of a bore

so you speak of your mother or sister or very good friend

and really you speak of your feelings which are too personal

for anyone else

to take a chance on feeling

and you eat that godawful food and you get somehow

through it and if this seems

like somewhat of a tentative poem it's probably

because i just realized that

i'm bored with categories

i'm giving up

on language

my next book will be blank

pages of various textures and hues

i have touched in

certain spots and patterns

and depending upon the mood the reader can come

with me or take me somewhere else

i smell blood a'cookin

“but why” i asked when she said “i'm afraid

to see men cry”

“because i depend” she replied “on their strength”

“but are they any less strong for crying

nylon stockings wear better if they're washed first”

mommy said it's only pot

luck but you can have some

science teaches us matter

is neither created nor destroyed

and as illogical as it is there is nothing

worthwhile but people

and lord knows how irrational we are

i'll just have a scrambled egg

if it's all right

the question turns on a spelling problem

i mean i hate

to squash a roach and thought about giving up

meat between the shadow

and the act falls the essence          encore!

the preceding paragraph was brought to you by the letter E

in the name of huemanity

an acorn to an ant

is the same as a white man to a Black
JOB

enjoyed waiting on

the lord tell me

why can't i

and i'm glad i'm smart cause i know

smart isn't enough and i'm glad

i'm young cause “youth and truth are making love” i'm glad

i'm Black not only

because it's beautiful but because it's me

and i can be dumb and old and petty and ugly

and jealous but i still need love

your lunch today was brought to you

by the polytech branch of your local

spear o agnew association

HEY! this is straight talk!

have a good day

it's funny that smells and sounds return

so all alone uncalled unneeded

on a sweaty night as i sit armed

with coffee and cigarettes waiting

sometimes it seems

my life is a scrapbook

i usta get 1.50 per week

for various duties unperformed

while i read
green dolphin street

and
the sun is my undoing

never understanding my exclusion

but knowing quite clearly the hero

is always misunderstood

though always right in the end

roy gave me a yellow carnation

that year for the junior prom

the red rose was from michael

who was the prettiest boy i'd ever known

he took me to the
jack
and
jill
dance

and left me sitting in the corner until

the slow drags came on then he danced

real tight and sweated out my bangs

i had a white leather monstrosity that passed

for taste in my adolescence pressed with dances

undanced though the songs were melodious

and somehow three or four books were filled

with proms and parties and programs that

my grandmother made me go to

for “culture” so that i could be

a lady

my favorite is the fisk book with clippings

of the
forum
and notes from the dean of women

saying “you are on social probation” and “you are

suspended from fisk”

and letters from my mother saying “behave yourself”

and letters from my grandmother reminding me

“your grandfather graduated fisk in 1905” and not

to try to run the school

but mostly notes from alvin asking when

was i coming over

again

i purchased a blue canvas notebook for the refrain

it's really something when you sit

watching dawn peep over apartment buildings

that seemed so ominous during the night and see

pages of smiling pictures        groups of girls throwing

pillows        couples staring nervously ahead as if they

think the kodak will eat them        someone with a ponytail

and a miles davis record        a lady with an afro pointing

joyously to a diploma        a girl in a brown tan and red

bathing suit holding a baby that looks like you

and now there is a black leather book filled

efficiently by a clipping service

and a pile of unanswered letters that remind

you to love those who love you

and i sit at dawn

all my defenses gone sometimes

listening to
something cool
sometimes

hearing
tears on my pillow

and know there must be other books

filled with failures and family and friends

that perhaps one day i can unfold

for my grandchildren