little boxes

In grade school, every time a teacher would say
"Can I have some nice strong boys help me to move these boxes,"

I would raise my hand and say

"Aren't girls strong too?"

The teachers really hated that.

Fairfield Train Station, 6:30 am

I woke up in an apartment of sleeping beauties, some friends.

 

I woke up in the bed of a young woman whose boyfriend had

cheated on her with me.

 

I woke up itchy and full of doubt.

 

 

I walked, at 6am, to the train station.

 

 

I walked in the rain.

 

I sat on a bench, and a man from Jamaica sat next to me.

 

He told me "where is your boyfriend?"

 

I thought , "what if i don't like boys?"

 

I told him I didn't have one. Too much trouble.

 

My use of the word trouble was a cue for him

to tell me all of his.

 

Hard working. Jamaican. Never spoke to no

white woman before except the one from

Darien. A young nurse. Asked him if he

could help her garden. Gave his number.

Walked to her home. White plush carpets,

he said. And wooden tables. Told him,

"we bleed the same blood." Held him

in her sexually deprived arms. Held him

for an uncomfortable amount of time. Kissed

him. He kissed her back. They made love,

and she went to work happy. She continued

her beautiful love affair, so delicate, so full of

lust, so full of touch and passion.

 

Until the neighbor saw him.

Until her coworkers were perplexed.

"the gardern worker from the super market?"

the black man.

the black man.

the black man.

 

Until she worried what her family would think

 

 

And then she told him
"no more."

 

and it hurt her

more than it

hurt him. 

 

because now he tells me this story, at 6:30am,

as I am covered in rain water, wondering if
 I too want to be held by him. Asking what

my parents would think?

I want to believe he is genuine and soft,

but I think of his penis, like a gun, shooting

my insides, and degrating me that morning,

down to a piece of possible white meat.

 

 

the same blood. as me.