Don’t You Forget About Me
Don’t you forget about me when I’m in brazil whining through the streets of Bahia celebrating Carnival. I will whine through the streets of Bahia surrounded by the most delectable, sun baked women celebrating their blackness, i will be whining through the streets of Bahia, so dont you forget about me.
I remember
when you fell down the steps at Penn Station. I laughed and now I’m sorry. Don’t you forget about me while I hold on to some
Brazilian girls ample waist and another holds mine and we’ll whine through the
streets of
Bahia, a
black woman’s Freedom Train.
Remember me as I was when last I saw you on the corner of Fulton and Nostrand, not as I’ll be, laid up in a hut, dressed like a slut whining on some fine brown Brazilian woman, remember my happy birthday email, not me as I’ll be waking up to a cock...a-doodle-doo after partying all night with two Brazilian girls who each had their way with me and I with them and them with each other...
It was fun, but know you’ve been warned: don’t you forget about me when I’m gone
ﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺ
A Thousand Knives
The tupperware bowl of hot, spicy kale sits upon the oak
finished countertop, steam rising, seeping into the lumpy, off-white ceiling as
if to mark its territory. Sahni opens the oven door with callused, sienna brown
hands, slowly removes the medium size tin of salmon, meat tender, smothered with
her homemade vinaigrette. Mark will be pleased, she thinks excitedly,
moving slow as the hour hand of a clock toward the tan, wooden table to set down
the sizzling entrée. Two more steps. Sahni is careful not to stain the
white summer dress Mark bought her for their first anniversary. One more
step, arms outstretched, ready to be rid of the tin, which is becoming a
dead weight in her hands.
At that moment, a thousand knives tear into her. The wooden table seems as far away as the Gold Coast, unimportant as the tin of salmon, now overturned on the floor, vinaigrette staining the light colored tiles a deep pink hue. Sahni realizes she is on her knees before the second wave of pain attacks. She whimpers, curls into a ball as if she’s been kicked straight through to her womb. Sahni overcomes shock long enough to register the wetness against her naked thighs, takes a callused hand, reaches down to feel a river running steadily down her left leg.
And she knows. Sahni knows before she pulls her hand up to find red. She howls like a wounded fox bleeding internally from a thousand knives draining the life out of her, curled up in a ball like a fetus on an ultrasound screen
ﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺﭺ
Karina Candy
Karina Candy turns twenty in December, a Sagittarius with Gemini rising, deep, cocoa brown skin and eyes, neat chestnut twists down to her tiny waist, chubby cheeks complete with dimple. Hasn’t grown, aged or gained a pound in two decades. “What’s your secret?” I once asked.
She never did answer.
She remembers when my parents divorced. Money was scarce, mom had to feed seven of us, got on welfare, took some data entry classes, found a job. She was stressed, started drinking Budweiser, brandy, vodka. Karina and I would sit at the living room table and watch, me mentally willing her to stop, Karina smiling innocently. I know she remembers when Aunt Alicia died of cancer in ’89 and Uncle Gary in January of ‘94. We found out he was gay, died of AIDS. Neither of us loved him any less. That March, I dropped out of seventh grade, spent my summer taking math, science and social studies seated next to a girl named Charisma. “Does she have any?” mom asked. “Too soon to tell,” I said. Karina smiled.
She’s been sliced across both shoulders with silver scissors by a jealous cousin whose excuse was that he had nothing better to do. “She smiled the whole time,” he taunted. I cried out of both love and duty; mom stitched her up, made me chamomile tea, a tunafish sandwich.
Karina disappeared during the late 1990s. She missed high school graduation, uncle Jason’s funeral, the movie, American Beauty. “I never would’ve guessed the Colonel was gay, he was such a man’s man. No pun intended,” said a classmate at College to her friend. They laughed. I fidgeted uncomfortably behind them at my right handed desk, took a clean sheet of paper, scribbled: stupidbitchgaybisexualesbianlesbiangrrlswhereiskarina.
I found her while spring cleaning in 2000; she was hidden deep in my closet under action figures, laundry bags, shoe boots and Reeboks. My cousin walked into my room, sat on the bed. I wanted so badly to tell her about me, these feelings I’ve had since elementary school, my crush on Daniel Lewis in fifth grade, Yvonne in high school…
I stood up, dusted off Karina’s bright yellow sundress.
“Why are you standing in the closet?” my cousin asked. She eyed
Karina curiously. “Is that a cabbage patch?”
