From James Baldwin to His Lover

An ode to the midnight skin that pulls me,

to the muscles, taught taut strength.

May my genius not be

masked in a so called

“lack of


to me, you

holds the greatest ink in the folds of you skin,

the muse I search for.

Prompts in

rough palms, I give you

the chance to sculpt me pretty,

make priceless,

Make me David,

Venus De Milo,

Make me masterpiece,


is there truth in this testosterone?

For I’ve been

tested beat down

built up. I’ve been ,

menace turned ,

minstrel claimed masterpiece again,

all at the hands of men.

All between the collision of skin, and sin,

Sunday and scripture. This dirt we do,

can be sacred if we do it right.