Poetry: AFTER LEARNING OF THE AFFAIR, I DOWN TWO BOTTLES OF CHARDONNAY AND GIVE AN IMPROMPTU PERFORMANCE OF BEYONCÉ’S “DON’T HURT YOURSELF” by Imani Davis

“We must become undisciplined.”

–Christina Sharpe

 

i mean i guess it could be god

or whatever, this whiny

voice luring me back to sanity.

 

whoever it is, i’m not listening.

this not my first rodeo. this time,

 

though, it’s my hooves flirting

with the edge of carnal. my reckless,

tender back. come on. i can’t be

 

the first bitch to gallop

this bluntly across

a breakup track.

 

if there is a time to be

leashless, my god, it has

finally arrived. my key

 

to her apartment pressing

its useless signature into

my palm. without warning,

 

i relate to every lyric

that hisses when touched.

my mother says you have

 

never truly sung

until a heavenly heaviness

pushes out the music.

 

how agony is useful

if it can make us urgent.

i guess some lessons in speed

 

draw breath. eat breakfast. can open

a door & quit belonging

 

to me whenever they please.

it’s an easy history. a girl

 

offers to hurt me well & i give

her two years of my sun

-drenched hands in return.

 

how to articulate the uneven

arcs of desire? to let youth deliver

its single, lonely lesson:

 

all the things i can be

besides held.

i don’t want to

 

think too hard about it,

so i won’t. whose gruesome theater

is this anyway? i think it belongs

 

to whatever growls behind

my eyes at the mention of her

 

name. bey & i toss our rings

at the screen, cast our good,

 

feral furs to the ground like

expired love spells. yes, i can

 

barely trust the sunrise anymore,

but for now, i trust this.

the sharpened howl prowling

 

through my blood, waiting to wake.

waiting to claw any back ever turned.