I like a little violence

in my poetry

because I don’t trust

the sweetness

of too-ripe words, like

I don’t trust a man

who says, “you’re wonderful”

too quickly.

What would he say

if I told him the sugar

on his tongue

is only what I allow him

to taste?
I used to preen

when a lover called me

easygoing, as if

being no trouble at all

was some kind of glory,

as if un-troubling

his waters would keep

the current from pulling

me under, kicking

the wind out,

from filling my lungs

with salt water

and sorrow. 
This is how a woman

protects herself,

with yes and sure

and I don’t care,

how she paves every pothole

so others wont need

to remember how much

earth is still root, crack

and resistance,

so others wont feel

the quaking and know

that earth never intended

to be tamed.
But I can’t take all

the blame. You see,

they never looked up.

Not once.

Never saw the sentry
 
in the tree
 
three clicks up the road
 
or the sniper on the rooftop
 
trained to kill
 
any me that didn’t heel

quick enough. Now,
 
when a man calls
 
me easygoing
 
I land mine, 
explode his body

into pieces I salvage

for my tricked-out ride,

cruise down main street.

Hydraulics at my fingertips.

My fingers itch

when I hear the engine growl,

“I would have loved you

anyway. I would have

loved you more.”
Jamaica Baldwin is our Poet in Residence for March. Previously: "Father/less", "Vigilant", and "Discarded".