Unauthorized Biography of Superfly, Poem #2: Sherrie
Youngblood wasn't ready for me.
Somebody told him I was a soft kinda bitch.
He liked to tell me I was the first woman
that wouldn't accept his shit. Whether or not that's true,
he learned real fast that I ain't afraid to hit back. He was still
young then, a little bit of a fool. But hell, me too.
He used to rub himself before I'd let him slap me.
He probably don't want me to share his business
but I'll notify you when I give a damn. His hands
were so fast, Jesus. Even when I knew it was coming.
Even when I told him to. But don't get it twisted now,
this wasn't for free. He got two or three hits in before I
laid into his ass. He'd be sliding in and out while I was stroking
with one arm and ramming him with the other. He wasn't loud
in bed, more of a growler. I don't know
what he does with his women now. We ended things pretty
smoothly, but I know for a fact he hates me. While we had fun
for a while, I wasn't supposed to cut him open. All I asked
was to hear his middle name. Youngblood Priest was too damn cool
of a real man's name, and I'd rather fuck a man than a hologram.
I asked him to tell me on our second date. He hit me.
The second to last time we shared a bed, he was growling
like some kinda lion being trampled to death. I didn't understand;
far as I knew my lovin’ was the same. Maybe I was mad,
didn't know I was beating him harder. But when he was done,
he fell on the sheets, laid his head where he'd just pulled out,
and he whispered. It was a strange name. A little boring,
a little too painful for my man to say aloud.
And he didn't tell me why he said it. I just know his eyes
were a pair of caves. I knew I wasn't crawlin’ in.
If I tell it to you, the word that clawed
out of his mouth, could you keep it quiet?
Hell no. He'd kill me. But I'll admit,
something still shakes in me. I want him to remember the time
he gave some crazy bitch his other name.
And, if he heard it again, from somebody else's mouth,
would he know it had slipped from me? If it was really a love
thing, like he said, like he swung, like he growled,
could that name have only come from me?
BY KHARY JACKSON
Khary Jackson is a performance poet, playwright, dancer and musician. A Detroit native, he currently resides in the Twin Cities where he serves as a teaching artist and writer. He is a Cave Canem Fellow, and as a result has further reason to adore black people. He has written 12 full length plays, one of which (Water) was produced in 2009 at Ink and Pulp Theatre in Chicago. He's a little weird, but rest assured, there's a method to the way he stares into your house.