Brotha sayin' to me
that
he be "just a man",
but
the man he be
be
 Black.
Black like me,
Mother Earth -
from
whose womb he sprang
fully-grown
and
fully-clothed
in
 Glory.
 
Black - like Mother Africa
whose heat he shares
and
which inflames me
at
the very thought
of
his kiss.
 
Black - like the midnight hour
from which all Light,
all Love,
and yes, all Word, was born.
 
Black - like the darkness
that
once covered
the face of the deep
in
metaphysical mystery.
 
Black - like the edges of the universe
edging ever closer
to me
every time he speaks.
 
He be
my Faith-full,
my Beauty-full,
my Grace-full,
SuperBrothaMan hero
sweeping me off my feet,
carrying me away
with words
strong enough to take my breath away
and
break my heart,
but
heals it instead
like
the Balm of Gilead.
 
And he skates?!?
 
He got a Sista scratchin' her coiled-crown head
tryna figure out
if
this fine, glorious, sweet, Black-talkin' Brotha
be live ...
 
or
 dead!
 
The aura of his words
be
illuminating, enlightening, revealing ...
awakening a Sista from a sleep
she didn't even know
she was sleepin'
like
she be some Sleeping-Beauty-Princess
in
a fairy tale ...
come true.
 
But she be up now!
 
Brotha done gone and went
 and woke
the sleeping giant.
And now
the giant be hungry.
So feed me, my Brotha.
Feed me,
my gorgeous Black Night
in
the shining armor
of
 Love,
but only with the sweet word
of
Truth
'cause a Sista's diet
don't consist
of
no lies.
(Don't you know her body
be
a temple
and
deceit ain't digested here?)
 
Feed me.
 
Feed me from that pot
of
wisdom and knowledge
that's
been simmerin' inside you
since
the Beginning ...
of
Time.
Let me gorge
on
your infinite intelligence
and
your dazzling creativity
until
I vomit up the Kingdom of Heaven ...
on
 earth.
Feed me from the bowl of your brilliance,
from
the plate of your perfection,
until
I am inspired
by
your greatness.
 
Feed me, I said.
 
Set a table before me
and
allow me to dine
in
the presence
of
your Black excellent-Excellency.
Let me sip
from
the hollowed and hallowed tusks
of
African ivory
that be the cups
of
your hands.
Allow me to sup
from
the platinum and gold platters
of
your ancient African memories.
Hand-feed me, my Brotha
with
teasing, tempting, taunting fingers
of
 Love,
but feed me only
the
choicest portions
of
your sweetness,
your goodness, your kindness,
your softness ...
 
and
keep 'em comin' ...
 
'til my days ... and nights
be filled
with
thoughts
only of you.
 
Feed me your Black masculinity -
the very essence
of
Who you be
and
Why you be ...
 
'til you be comin' out of my mouth,
'til I be sweatin' you out of my pores,
'til you be pourin' out of my heart,
and
don't hold back ...
even if I beg you to ...
as
I stand before you
with
my head thrown back
and
my heart open wide.
For more.