Michelle Hudson - First Utterings

whose name i cannot pronounce

and whose culture i am unfamiliar

black but not as the night

more akin to a tinge

of creamy caramel latte

american through and through

breathing life into every patriotic syllable

of francis scott key’s battle hymn

yet i am seen as something

so very foreign to me

labeled the degenerate, the robber, the nigger

standing on the outside of your judgment

scholastic prowess ignored

potential and worth underestimated

accordingly, you do not understand why

a grade of “b” is not good enough for me

whom you regard as the dark one

for your sake, one day you may see,

that the black man – even in diversity –

is merely a man and as worthy as any man

Soul Food

My mother wore patches of white flour

as badges of honor.

From her ruby cheeks

to her sweat-stained blouse,

the light dusting promised

a feast

of fried chicken, collard greens,

and pecan pie.

A simple dinner in our home

served with fanfare of the heart.

Lapping the juices

from my shiny fingers,

I saw love mirrored in Mama's eyes –

chestnut orbs that hid

the pain encased in her heart.

Always sitting the table for three.

Hoping that might be the night

dad returned

to us …

to her.

Before Dawn

Slumber dissipates as dawn approaches.

Quiet sails along the cool breeze

Pouring from the window ajar.

Dew dampens the room

You lie content and unaffected.

Tangled locks – dark and soft –

Repose upon the pillow.

I kiss your tiny forehead

And pray to the remaining stars above.

My inadequacies aside,

Let me be a decent mother

To my only son. My only priority.

The heart captures this moment.

Keeping worry at bay. My love,

Enjoy your dreams before daybreak

Wrangles your bliss and it is time

For us to brave the world.

The Annabel Lee Conspiracy

Who knew Poe's beautiful Annabel Lee?

Through and through, the ideal mortal lover.

Unfortunately, she died by the sea.

Body gone from this world, her soul hovered.

Distraught and wounded, part of Poe died, too.

He lived for the love of that girl -- so fair.

Shattered by her death, Poe knew what to do.

By god, he'd drag those angels by their hair!

But, did the winged seraphs kill Annabel

Or did she fall prey to Poe's psychosis?

Whether by pen or strife, it was Poe's hell

That took Annabel's life without notice.

Ah, Poor Mr. Poe. An ill-fated chap

With the grave stain of guilt upon his lap.

Football Sundays

Rise before the pelican to give God his due.

In the heart of the Crescent City beyond the bayou,

We peel off club rags and reach for church attire.

Praise the Lord and watch the Saints baptize foes in pigskin fire.

From heaven, “Who Dat!” alights the sky in a black and gold hue.

Pregnant with Pride

pregnant with pride

you shrink

from responsibility

of your reckless and callous

words

Latrine Epiphany

Regurgitation spews forth.

A wasted life

Expelled.

Clearing the path

For unfettered renewal.

The Plea

You say you’ll give me the world.

Really? The world? Can you do that?

Start smaller. May be a wide-brim hat

For a beach side walk to watch the water pool and swirl.

I want much but need very little:

Your kiss, your touch, your attention, your love.

Yes, it’s that simple! As simple as a hug.

Love can be complex but it’s no riddle.

Shall we start with truth? With the real?

Save the, “Roses are red / Violets are blue.”

I’d rather get to know you.

Be brave. Show me how you feel.

Fragrances, flowers, and fanfare are nice

But honesty, sincerity, and subtlety are better.

Do anything but please ... let communication tether

Our union, allowing a genuine connection to take flight.

So what will it be?

Will you risk giving of yourself instead of the world?

It is all that’s needed for this girl.

In the glint of the sunrise, I await you by the sea.

Seductive Sadie

Everyman’s mistress, they pine over Seductive Sadie.

Her studded cotton bloomers are a far cry from her heyday

Of silk pantie girdles adorning luminous, feathered costumes.

Now, a toothless strumpet – contemplating her beckoning tomb –

Hoping the inscription reads, “Good Ole Sadie was such a fine lady.”

ain’t easy

From my perspective,

I'd say being black

ain't easy.

Neither is being female,

but the truth is life

ain't easy.

Struggle precedes categorization.

It is universally human and it

ain't easy.

Frail and penetrable,

the flesh buckles and cries, "It

ain't easy."

Heed sage biblical advice.

Be of the Spirit though knowing being a Christian

ain't easy

either.

The Things We Do

The things we do

for men

to love us.

We transform ourselves –

repeatedly and unsuccessfully.

Transparent incarnations of men’s desires.

The whole while praying

that our devotion satiates their

insatiable fantasies and realities.

The things we do

for men

to love us.

From inception, we are taught

to forsake and to sacrifice.

For men.

Indoctrination that boasts

feeding men’s appetites for food and sex

guarantees their love.

For that love!

Oh, the things we do

for men!

We neglect

ourselves. Our God.

Our children.

We make men the priority.

Worship their beings and relinquish

our babies.

Regrettably, the things we do

for men

to love us.

We open our legs. Wide. Give what’s inside:

our femininity, our soul, our peace of mind.

Savagely, we thrust and grind.

But, there is no crime, no sinuous fault

in carnivorous pleasing. Unless

it devours one’s soul.

My God, the things we do

for men

to love us ...

We, we women, are taught invisibility.

Unaware that we should be acknowledged.

That we – within ourselves – are worthy.

Ignorantly seeking love in the darkest recesses

of insanity.

Finding neither love nor ourselves.

The things we do

for men.

To love. Us.

In March

In March, I was born –

barely escaped being April’s fool.

In March, I celebrated womanhood

in honor of National Women’s Month.

In March, I found love

in my eighteenth year.

In March, I found love again

in my thirtieth year.

In March, my father

died.

In March, I wore Dunbar’s mask

to smile through the pain.

In March, I transformed

from a child into a woman. All ...

In March.

I Love You

During childhood years of playing

Jacks, UNO, hopscotch and Connect 4,

The thought of boys turned us girls into blaring sirens:

“Ewwwww!” We proclaimed with great disdain.

For everyone knew that boys had cooties.

Yet, something about you illuminated. Before I could comprehend it,

my heart sang –

I love you.

I still remember the date and the place:

March twelfth. Two blocks from Carrollton and Canal Streets.

Beneath the cool shade of aging maple trees,

You kissed me – a teen apprehensive about her first kiss.