RA Washington is a polymath, and has authored several books, to include Citi (2015, Red Giant Books)
The below poems are taken, with permission, from his poetry collection The Lovers (printed first 2011, Tiny Patron Press)
A cross the room to the fool – a flame
Slip in so as not to do anything rash
Cross the room if dare you be seen as not pure
We can let your father dream of you this way,
The length of a forearm, brilliant curl
Your mother’s eyes, his crooked mouth
You blush at words?
Well then it will be simple to bed you,
That’s not a lack of respect, but keeping
What I may do in front of us
Will allow for us both to walk away
And not play partial to a certain suffering
I get it, your pride slipped
So we must play that you were not impressed
Candor is a bastard’s weapon.
So I say-
I want you to sleep with me.
Taste you sweating just past air.
Cocoa strips for pallid thighs whisper
Again, that facing
To rise in the middle of a tattered testify
Wanting you more than you ever wanted
Even the captor seeking princes amongst fallen
Or the quick thrust of boys who swallow their
He pants, and you idealize teaching him, but
to the room of the learned, and discarded
Is he? Or that one, leaning on the good years his
Baby, it’s never noble in loud snatches
You have to understand
What it means to be broken
Wait- let me write it down for you
It’s the woman who chooses
To be always girl, pigtailed danger
Seeking a bed that was never there
Feign house just because I listened
In this face, I will never say
Just know that I come
From where you will
And enter after all this,
For passion and youth
I come from a girl
Who chose to play
Only to mother flames.
I lent you a few choice curses
Which, over time gave you the tablespoon
Of courage to pretend to be.
This is not the awful rowing of the spurned
Just the simple meanderings of a thief.
I would watch you mirror up, do the lips
Wider than birthright
For ass divining is not enough for princesses
And if take the ATM card, and hum to distract
Just laugh it off with blows, full spit
Hold on. There is no music.
You knew this, and came along the notes end
The passive do better in life
The guilty tend to remember snapshots best
Those eyes held me terrible so few times
Snatch this phrase from my whisper-
I wish to kill you in the next life
There is nothing poetic about murder.
Especially when it’s so damn modern
To be left for dead anyway
I OCCUPIED IT.
for my mother
his wet mouth
pressed to the slack breast.
– Robert Lowell
on this night,
you feigned well, always the actress
the subtle song of dependence
you, transported to five
your mother crashed up
along the Eastern Shore
forever. is a long time to need.
i) imagine you with my Father,
the terrible waved hair
slack jaw promises
a wonder fuck and moments after
you promised to love shadows
forgetting the loathing you tuck
into my womb (it is mine for I occupied it.)
you admit that you wanted death to love you.
lips not proper for truth
the scorpion need, virtual lover
his slack-head shoulder cry
a pumice for you to grind on
afterbirth of the Sag Sky
affairs know no mercy
how does One feed TWO
when it’s his mouth
always at your breast?
envy is the Youth-eater.