Dispatch from the Dark Continent

It’s complicated to like my hair pulled, 
to enjoy having a man’s member 

surrendered to the will of my teeth, 
the clench of my mandible. 

You have to be twice, my mother said— 
womb-song-tune about how the world 
will kick you—so I don’t scream 

at the woman in line at Trader Joe’s, 
who calls me nigger because I said I was first. 

The same thing happens in bed; 
I stifle myself, pretend I don’t 

love shower sex à la Négresse, 
riding a man into morning— 
sky blushing at our turbulence. 

In bed, a white man tells me 
he likes his coffee my color— 
this is supposed to be a compliment— 

but I worry that instead of me 
he just sees kinks to get lost in. 

You have to be twice, Mom said, but 
somehow I’ve become special-order 

brown nesting dolls stacked into myself— 
scared to take up too much space 

because I’m damned if I do, 
damned if I don’t, 

and am always asked 
to speak for a whole race.