Three Poems

by E’mon Lauren

brandon louis

the man inside of me was suppose
to be a boy
paper cut
turtle neck
stretched like scrotum
eyes pop out
like bugs
glass bottle bottoms
best of luck bloom

fast early arrival
to a late summers 36
when risk
is worth the wait

my father a punctual man
timepiece wrist
spent
most of his days cutting wood
and drumming

i wonder how much of myself is given
to the men i would have used to become

the man in me reads
more than i used to
as a little girl

i wonder if that would make him
a catch
would he evade any possibility
of him being crook

collared eyed
powder
power blue suit on

chest beat my wood in half
split the speech with a
“she wanted this!”
“and i was too much!”
“a prince of a daughter!”
“a man’s second son!”

the man inside of me
could’ve been a dick

knowing i am of art and culture
curated swine
breathing the best parts
of rare form

species dominant
haughty laugh
over wine and cheese 

mislead and make them fall
for stocks
rising like
panty hoses 

no

my father would’ve created
“a good man”
my mother wanted a son

a gentleman for some
a lady for few

the big boy in me wants to be a man
i keep him in
like folded laundry

all in one basket with red socks
he’s my chance
at irresponsibility
when i lose focus
it’s cause brandon
running
around upstairs

my mother wanted to name me
brandon
louis
after my uncle

i can’t help if the little man in me
is a smooth talker

it’s natural instinct

my pussy yank

a coat ripped from hanger. a cord
finally untangled. who’s to make room
for my stuck zipper. my thighs, an
overstuffed suitcase. i’ve been packed
with haste. quick hands and in the hurry’s.
i’m a force of gravity. a blackhole
in the reach of my grip. to say
it’s fire, implies an extinguish.
a wall removed of what made it
common. my pussy, a tug-of-war
champ, knows the feel of dirty victory.
like an item, stuck in a door, and retrieved
without its opening. my pussy got something
off the top shelf. my pussy
picked its own hair, and popped ash off
its sweater. it’s not asking to be taken
or snatched like a midnight wind. this
is for my greedy. my feeding a forceful
pull. my pussy, an arm crank at the party.
the flex of joy. a moment they are
wanting to last forever.

a praise poem for $40

the internet calls a nightstand
my home. a valuable tip of charity.
severance for the salacious.
they use me as diss but don’t know
the reign of ‘to the next day’. i keep
niggas alive. i turn an empty into a
breath. lest the need to fish the sofa
or pull a pond of copper. should the
stomach, limp as noodle, seek soup.
i come by way of a homie. a move. a sister.
play your cards right, and your house wins.
dish washing liquid, tampons and a sawbuck. fuck
around with the right homie, and it’s yours—
forever. almost as a stamp of testament.
one that says,
“i’ll see you tomorrow.
i’ll make sure of it.”