It's All Love

by Marita Golden

  Strong hand in strong hand, stride to

  the Assault that is promised you (knowing

  no armor assaults a pudding or a mush).

  Here is your Wedding Day.

  Here is your launch.

  Come to your Wedding Song.

  II

  For You

  I wish the kindness that romps or sorrows along.

  Or kneels.

  I wish you the daily forgiveness of each other.

  For war comes in from the World

  And puzzles a darling duet—

  tangles tongues,

  tears hearts, mashes minds;

  there will be the need to forgive.

  I wish you jewels of black love.

  Come to your Wedding Song.

  Autumn Poems

  NIKKI GIOVANNI

  the heat

  you left with me

  last night still smolders

  the wind catches

  your scent

  and refreshes

  my senses

  i am a leaf

  falling from your tree

  upon which i was

  impaled

  Haiku

  KWAME ALEXANDER

  If I am your heart

  Imagine me inside

  Beating, pumping, loving

  Kupenda

  KWAME ALEXANDER

  I have never been a slave

  Yet, I know I am whipped

  I have never escaped underground

  Yet, the night knows my journey

  I have never been to Canada

  Yet I've crossed your border

  If I were a poet in love

  I'd say that

  with you

  I have found that new place

  Where romance

  is just a beginning

  And freedom

  is our end.

  Untitled

  E. ETHELBERT MILLER

  On your left hand

  a paper cut near your thumb.

  I notice small things

  because I love you so much.

  After Midnight

  JALAL

  For Milton

  When opportunity knocks

  I open my door

  After midnight.

  You appear

  First in a line

  Of homeless men standing

  Outside a shelter.

  You enter my apartment

  Unannounced.

  The neighbors on my floor

  They come and go

  They stand between the elevator

  And my door,

  Waiting for a way out,

  They curse me,

  “That Black faggot bitch got crackheads coming up in here.”

  Peering through their peepholes

  They don't love us

  Or even know how the pairing of two Black men

  Is so much greater than the rumors they've reduced us to,

  Rumors I hear when I enter the bar

  Where no handsome stranger flirts with me,

  Rumors that litter the streets we walk

  And pollute the eyes around us

  With self-disgust and self-pity

  When opportunity knocks

  I let you in,

  You open

  My refrigerator door,

  You take

  Sacrifices packaged

  And ready to be eaten

  I run your bath water, wash your clothes

  Lie in my bed with clean sheets,

  But there are places within me

  French kisses and erections cannot reach.

  When opportunity knocks

  America sees shiftless garbage walking

  Through my door—a crackhead, a killer, a thief,

  Another nigga racing past them in disgrace.

  I live beyond the expiration date men

  See stamped on my face.

  I'm a forty-year-old Black gay man

  Living a life challenged by HIV disease.

  What makes me different from those who would

  Exploit you,

  Knowing you are

  Unemployed, homeless,

  And a crackhead on call who sells his body

  For a rock, food, and shelter?

  I worry about you

  You don't have to fuck me

  Or get fucked in the mouth for a meal.

  I won't wet your appetite for self-destruction

  With my cum,

  I won't buy you crack

  Or give you money

  I will grieve each time

  You tell me you can't stop

  Smoking crack

  And that you like your life

  Just as it is.

  When opportunity knocks

  You fuck me with the sincerity and passion

  Of a condemned man in prayer.

  Isolation binds us

  Soul mates locked in Hell's hotel room

  And this is our wedding night.

  Am I liberated or lonely,

  Lucky or reluctant

  Free or afraid to be hurt again,

  Discarded by men

  ISO (in search of) personal ad playmates

  Wanted—Black men, must be younger, must be lighter, must

  be darker, more Muscular, more masculine, more status conscious, more attractive than …

  After midnight,

  When opportunity knocks,

  I want you to find a way station of comfort

  Not at the bottom of a beggar's cup

  I want us to give more to our lives

  Demand more of ourselves

  Than despair.

  Nonfiction

  Lamu Lover

  DOREEN BAINGANA

  IAM ON AN ISLAND in the Indian Ocean. The sun is strong and constant; it is holding me up. There is wide blue water to soak in, salty and warm. Spicy Swahili pilau and fish, cold beer, and a warm man. A slender young man as dark and smooth and supple as the sun is bright. Issanda is lemony sweet. I am so far away from my life that regular rules do not apply We are here, with our bodies, what can't we do? What can we do?

  Seduce each other. He was in my workshop; I was the leader or facilitator. It would no longer be unethical for us to venture closer, the workshop is over, no grades were given, and now, on this island, Lamu, we are all writers here, together. But just last week I acted like I had the knowledge; since I was published, I pontificated and was in charge. He listened, not exactly at my knee, but close to that position, it may have been easier to impress him. When he walked into the workshop on the first day, my mind went yummy, but hid it in the very back corner of my mind where thoughts that pop up unbidden are stamped down and locked away. As the workshop continued, I couldn't help but admire his physical beauty, his eyes that were sharp with intelligence, though a little red from the dust, bright sunlight, or late-night drinks, who knew? I noticed with secret delight his sharpish-flatish nose that is a bit like mine; and his neatly cut toenails that are a tawny color that matches perfectly the coffee of his feet and the even darker leather sandals. I was amused and impressed by his effort with English, which he is still learning, and which comes out with a French accent, not a Congolese one, as I expected. His ability to make jokes in a foreign language, betraying a sly humor that belies his boyish face. His tiny teeth shielded by lips a little too large, a little too much, but by whose standards? I asked myself. Musing about that was pleasurable too. I was also genuinely moved by his writing, which would have struck me even if nothing else did. Thank goodness it was not wrong to voice admiration for his words. To the contrary. It was easy then to enjoy the nurturing that is part of teaching, of both him and my other students.

  And now he is no longer my student. About fifty writers and I came from the United States to join about twenty African writers at a seminar in Nairobi. After a week, we flew from the Kenyan capital to the Indian Ocean coast, an hour's quick trip, for a writing retreat on the island of Lamu. We
land on a dusty airstrip by the shore, with a long low shed for an airport, and, walking, push through a wall of hot humidity, across long brown elephant grass to a wooden, rickety pier. At the end of it are two dhows ready to take us across the water to Lamu. Yes, dhows, those age-old wooden boats that plied the route between the East African coast and the Persian Gulf for centuries and led to the intermingling of Arab and African that became the Swahili people, culture, and language. We will live among them for a week, soaking in the sweet and spice of their hy-bridity that is clearly revealed by their skin color. The islanders are a kaleidoscope of browns that recall the word for brown in my language, Runyankore—itaka—which means the earth, mud, loam, or soil.

  On the dhow, a giant creaky brown bowl, under a huge khaki-colored flapping sail, between the wavy carpet of dark blue water and canopy above of brilliant blue sky; stroked by the half-understood Swahili shouts of half-naked sinewy sailors; brimming inside with beginning-of-foreign-holiday excitement, as tingly as the salty breeze, amid all this, somehow, even more: Issanda is standing next to me. The jokes we shared in class continue, or perhaps the flirting starts. He says, “My favorite teacher!”

  It is time to make it clear. “I am not your teacher anymore; I am your friend.” We go silent. I can only guess what he was thinking, and that is the scary thrill of another person, an other. I cannot enter his mind nor he mine, but I wouldn't want it any other way. My mind is a place of private little plays, where my character adopts the scene by having me emphasize your friend with a bold and meaningful look. In reality, I look out over the blue expanse to hide my face, too embarrassed to make a deliberate pass. Still, I feel a tremor of flirtation between us, that nervousness of wish that is a reaching out, hesitation, and prickles of sweat. Something not yet, but could be and is becoming, or not.

  Our group more or less writes in the mornings, eats lunch and swims at the beach in the afternoons, has dinner and talks into the wee hours of the night on various rooftops overlooking the wide ocean. We take dhow rides, explore the surrounding islands, shop, meet with writing mentors, or lie around and read in clusters large and small, or alone. Bliss, in short, but my body wants more.

  One afternoon Issanda and I are part of a group that takes a boat to Manda beach. He does not spend much time in the water, but wades out in loose white and red swimming trunks.

  I note his lithe body and hairless chest with approval, and his solidly dark arms that are muscled in a natural, not exaggerated, steroidish way His legs are spindly thin, but by now anything that could be a fault is a plus: a confirmation of his uniqueness and my uniqueness too, because it proves I am not shallow. I can stare freely because everyone is half dressed and in full view of one another, but I would not be surprised if he felt my stare like bores through his back. I am sure even he takes this chance the beach offers for full-body scans. We are half naked already but protected by being in public.

  The top piece of my aqua blue swimsuit covers my rather flabby forty-year-old belly, but something about this island makes me unself-conscious. Who cares about knock-knees, thighs rich with cellulite that would be more useful on my boobs, and hair that puts the dread in dreadlocks? Unlike Dutch courage, Kenyan courage is a heady brew of sun, sea, and the confidence I gain on (well, near enough to) the black soil I grew up on, with a topping of extremely smart and funny writers who admire my work, and I theirs. Potent stuff. I swim in it and, with each stroke, reach for more and relish the reaching.

  I follow Issanda out of the water after a few minutes so that it is not so obvious I am after him. My inner cat is prowling, sure-footed, as I join him on a canopy made of roughly hewn poles covered with beige sisal matting, sandy on the skin.

  “You didn't swim much.”

  “I don't swim very well.” He is shy about it, which is so sweet.

  “I'll teach you.”

  This is a role I relish. It is an opening I want to enter like a man. The others join us in the shade, and we joke and laugh and are generally relaxed. Issanda remains in the background, a little silent. The resident clown fuels his performance with vodka straight from the bottle. I take sips of it, and it shoots straight to the center of my head, making the play in my mind sparkle and squirm to get out, get real. The salt water drying my skin gives me a good excuse; I take out my sunscreen lotion and hold it out to Issanda with too coy a smile.

  “Can you spread some on my back please?”

  “But of course, Doreen!” He moves over quickly. Oh, the accent, the willingness, the way he laughs at himself because he is so obviously willing. The guys laugh approvingly; the girls giggle. A man can be publicly willing and as lustful as he wants to be; in fact he should be lusty if he is a real man. A woman must be coy, act unwilling, must woo by running away, but not too fast, of course. Thankfully, I am beyond all that, liberated by past frustration.

  His touch is surprisingly soft. The cream is deliciously cool as he spreads it over my shoulders and back, but it is not a sexual caress. His hands are polite, and my skin, all smiles and relief. I am glad for the tentative tiny steps, for time. Skin and skin greet each other, saying more because we say nothing, and nothing is perfect right then. Still, I want more and desire is pleasurable too.

  A little later. “Okay, it's time for your swimming lesson.” We get back in the water, I in the lead. He sputters and splashes around like a little kid, which makes me laugh out loud. He can swim but not well, so I show him how to move his arms better, how to breathe, showing off some too. Isn't that what teaching is? We enjoy the focus together on something else besides each other, which paradoxically is one of the most intense ways to be together. I see that he must learn to trust the water, so I ask him to lie back in it and float as I hold him up. The water gives me a perfect excuse to wrap my arms beneath and around his body.

  “Relax, I have you. Let the water hold you too,” I say. He does. I turn him slowly around in the warm seawater and tell him to empty his mind, all is clear. To simply float between the blue sky and blue ocean. I turn him the other way slowly, as I was taught was a form of water shiatsu. We are silent together, all feeling. The play in my head and reality are meeting; they are becoming one. We switch positions, and this is no longer a lesson: Class is over, and a serious game has begun.

  We find an excuse to leave the group; the lunch offered at the beach is too expensive, we say. We prefer to go back to Lamu and eat at a basic and very cheap nontouristy restaurant. We are joined by the only other Congolese among the writers, who has become Issanda's buddy. This makes it less obvious to everyone else and to us that this is an escape, and we spend the rest of the day a threesome, talking, eating, drinking, laughing. We wander through narrow ancient streets that are more like tunnels, squashed and shadowed as they are between four-storied walls. Small stall fronts add to the claustrophobic feeling, as they are packed tight with similar cheap colorful plastic items and hairy brown coconuts, grayish cassava, pink onions, and other vegetables and fruits that are smaller and drier versions of the ones we have back in Uganda or the large shiny engineered ones in American stores. We skip over open sewer streams, pass by little raggedy children with large soulful eyes and shy smiles sitting on doorsteps or dodge them as they scamper through the streets. Bearded men mill about wearing long white gowns with Muslim caps and beards or shirts and colorful kikoi cloths wrapped waist down. The women are completely covered from head to toe in black bui-bui or wear long dresses and cover their heads with shiny, slippery scarves. All you have to look at, as they avert their eyes, are their feet, decorated with intricate henna patterns and sparkly nail polish, hinting coyly at more. The culture permits men and children to be friendlier than women to strangers, and so they greet you with a welcome Karibu Lamu and a smile.

  Issanda orders our lunch in Swahili, and we sit on metal tables and chairs and share our food with large flies. A television flickers faintly and unhappily in the background as almost everyone ignores the blurry football game. The fried rice and meat stew is medioc
re; I would have preferred a tourist restaurant on the busy street along the water, but I want to be with Issanda, and I am. I want to touch his arm as I talk to him and watch him eat, completely engrossed, but I cannot. Not yet. We three move on, taking over the empty third floor of Lamu's famous Petley's bar. We spread out on huge, beautifully carved mahogany chairs and cushions covered with brightly colored cotton cloth that obeys an unspoken law on African design: It must blind you with brilliant colors and wildly exaggerated patterns. The vast blue ocean outside provides a pleasant contrast, and we open wide tall windows to let in the strong wind and sounds from the busy pier and settle down to more talk, more drink, and more laughter, our rising flirtation buffered by his friend.

  What do we talk about? Congo, America, Kenya, our various journeys, writing, our workshop, and more. Issanda is the interpreter, as F does not speak English and I do not speak French. He relishes his role, and we go back and forth, striving to understand each other, laughing at the effort and mistakes, getting frustrated, then rising yet again to the challenge, showing off like birds in heat, mental jousting replacing the fluttering of feathers and trill of song. It is a primer for the possible physical engagement to come, that sweet struggle and strain. The air breathes with our hidden and tremulous anticipation, perhaps, perhaps, oh, please.

  Despite us, I cannot ignore the hugeness of the ocean outside. It seems to be an arm's length away as it charges forward and falls back in that constant and infinite rhythm. Ours are mere words and mortal wants, but over and all around us, long before we existed and long after we will cease to exist, the ocean will come crashing to the shore and slide back into itself, relentlessly. The thought soothes and silences me. As the sun recedes, something shifts in the room, and our talk subsides. The wind gets louder; we close the windows. F decides to leave us, saying he is tired, perhaps of being the proverbial third wheel. We are alone, we are on an island. The sky turns as dark as the ocean.