I must confess

That even if I could

Halve, quarter, eighth or sixteenth

My flesh, bone and blood,

I would not.

 

 

I am raw oxtail teased with spices,

Tossed in with tomato and diced veggies.

My meat has absorbed une mélange de saveurs

That makes lovers salivate over my succotash

Sneak under the cover to lick the pot.

 

 

Despite an atavistic hot mess

From mostly forced miscegenation

Forged through economics, lust, hate and greed

Sprouted from seeds over beaucoup de générations,

Pride I’ve still got.

 

 

I forgive ruthless

Statements that, unlike my hair,

I’m an “oreo,” rootless beneath the skin —

For every moment and in pure love

I live and breathe Divinity and Blackness.

 

 

Poem:  “D.N.A. (deliciously naked authenticity)”  © 2014 Chantale Rêve   All Rights Reserved

 

 

 

 

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Eulogy for a Rose

2014/04/04


If you ever have caressed a petal parted from a rose,

Recall the saline taste of tears and a facial twitch. 

How fragile all of life is, I realized today —

After tossing out with the trash that “life’s a bitch.”

How pungent is the stench of fear to age in our skins,

A genetic mutation of vain minds that propagate the specious

And, with (m)admen, are destined to do us in.

Mulling over my final moments with each withered bloom

Of all the roses ripped from fertile soil and accelerated to decay,

I wonder why we jump to false conclusions in assuming

That our lives do not as delicately slip away.

 

© 1998-2014 Chantale Rêve