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Subject: {ASS} Power and the Word  pt.2 by Taria
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POWER AND THE WORD
by Taria



TWO: "That little spark is love, Dying in the dark"
________________


"Young Negro Girl," he said.

Cleanthe didn't even look up from the bottom of the bed where she lay all
curled up, brushing his big toenail with a stubby grey pillow feather she'd
found on the bed.  "Thass me," she responded, and giggled.

Even though she wasn't looking at his face, Cleanthe knew he was frowning at
her.  She could almost hear his eyebrows drawing together.  "I meant the poem,"
he said.  Cleanthe puckered up her lips nice and fat and made kissy noises at
him.

They lay naked on the big queen-size bed.  It was late June, and late June on
the Upper West Side sometimes felt like August, and they had just made love. 
So they were naked.  So much naked usually made Cleanthe frisky after a while. 
But she wasn't frisky yet, just mellow, and mellow was good for poetry
listening.  "Don' get mad, bwana, I sorry.  G'wan, read it.  Read the poem,
Lewis Lover."

Five weeks of living together had taught Cleanthe how to judge her man's moods
and what to say to mollify him.  Besides, it was hard to stay grumpy during
afterglow, especially when someone was tickling your toes with a pillow
feather.  His expression softened, and he started to read.

"You are like a warm dark dusk
In the middle of June-time."

Five weeks now they'd been together in his apartment in Manhattan, since the
term had ended in May.  For the two months before that they had played a
dangerous game, carrying on a secret affair on campus.  After that first time
in March they'd tried to cool it, to treat it like a one-time thing.  In class
he was cordial, but very professional.  She  assumed the air of a bored and
disinterested student who was only worried about her grade-point.  They lasted
a week.

The next Tuesday after class Cleanthe showed up at his office on some pretense
of discussing a writing assignment on Countee Cullen.  As soon as the door shut
behind her they attacked each other without a word.  On Tuesday after Tuesday
they would meet in his office and fuck, screwing the afternoons away until it
was time for her to go to work and for him to teach his evening class.

"When the first violets
Have almost forgotten their names"

Their weekly tryst made for a good arrangement.  Because it was so limited,
Cleanthe found that she wasn't messing up in all her other classes.  This was
different from her usual pattern, because a new boyfriend generally left her no
time or energy or brain cells for her schoolwork.  She also liked the way
once-a-week kept the sex fresh, so it never got boring.

Like the week after Spring Break, when it had been two Tuesdays since they'd
seen each other.  Cleanthe strolled into the office in Hamilton Hall ten
minutes later than usual, just for fun.  "Hi, Dr. Johnson," she said casually. 
"I hope you had a good break.  I sure did.  I went dancing almost every night,
rubbin' up against my friends at the clubs..."  

As she spoke Cleanthe moved sinuously, rolling her hips and winding her ass as
she looked at him sidewise out of the corners of her eyes.  He could only take
so much, and after about ten seconds he grabbed her and kissed her violently on
the mouth.  Then he spun her around, pulled up her skirt, and yanked down her
panties with a growl.  As Cleanthe bent low over his desk he rammed into her
from behind, taking her with a force he'd never shown before.  Cleanthe was as
excited as he, and for days afterwards she tingled at the memory of their
ferocious animallike fucking and their howling climaxes.

"And the deep red roses bloom."

Cleanthe did feel like she was blooming.  As the term ended she thought maybe
their affair would too, and she promised herself she would be strong.  But at
the Final he asked her to meet him in his office afterwards, and instead of the
farewell fuck she expected he asked her to come live with him.  She had been
ecstatic and fairly leapt at him, and so they had the fuck anyway but without
the farewell.

The weeks they'd spent together since then had been the most amazing time of
her life.  After Finals ended there were no tests to study for, no papers to
write, and no work, either: University Food Market didn't need her once school
was out.  Cleanthe didn't even miss the money, 'cause in her life with with
Lewis there were no food bills or rent to worry about.  Well, maybe there was
rent.  But not the kind that you paid in cash.

"You are like a warm dark dusk
In the middle of June-time
Before the hot nights of summer
Burn white with stars."

Cleanthe rested her fingertips on his ankle.  For a long moment she closed her
eyes and opened her senses to everything around her: the heat of the apartment,
a faint breeze stirring under the slow circling of ceiling-fan blades; the low
hum of life outside the apartment window, traffic and neighbors and people down
below on the sidewalk; his downy leg hairs tickling the tips of her fingers.

It was perfect, just as the past weeks had been perfect.  Neither of them had
any pressing responsibilities.  They could do as they pleased, and frequently
they did.  They read innumerable books, together and separately.  They talked
endlessly, about writers and styles and messages.  And they made love, over and
over in a myriad of ways.  They tried everything, and after that they tried it
again.

Cleanthe was as happy as she could remember.

"Read another," she said.  "Read your favorite."  He made an indesciperable
noise, and Cleanthe realized he might've been falling asleep.  "Read another,"
she repeated.  "Humph," he grunted, stirring.  "Let's see...  Here we go.  This
one has always been the most evocative for me."  He held the book up, and began
to read.

"Have you dug the spill
Of Sugar Hill?"

Cleanthe was mildly surprised.  She'd expected "The Negro Speaks of Rivers." 
That one was special to her, although that might just have been because of
where it had brought her.  If that poem had never been written, she might not
be in this bed today.

It was that voice that had done it, she decided.  Even now, so soon after a
lovemaking session, it still turned her on.  She slowly unwound from her
curled-up position and ran her hands up his outstretched legs, starting at the
ankles.

"Cast your -- hey!  What're you --"

"Shhh," she murmured.  "Don't interrupt.  Just keep reading, Lover."

"Er-hmm," he cleared his throat, and then his eyes popped wide as her hands
reached his crotch.  He distractedly flipped the pages of the poetry book he
held, and started over.

"Have you dug the spill
Of Sugar Hill?
Cast your gims
On this sepia thrill:
Brown sugar lassie,
Caramel treat,
Honey-gold baby
Sweet enough to eat."

So far so good, thought Cleanthe.  That just about suits me.  She closed her
hand around the base of Lewis' cock and was rewarded with a throbbing
thickening as it responded to her touch.  Cleanthe decided to add a little more
incentive.

"Peach-skinned girlie,
Coffee and cream,
Chocolate darling
Out of a drea--Ummmmm..."

Obviously the sucking was getting to him, Cleanthe thought as she continued to
move her mouth up and down Lewis' now-erect organ.  She sucked a little harder,
and then added her squeezing hand to the base for good measure.  Hand and
mouth, nice and tight, she thought.  He was sure to like this.

"Ummm... Yeah, baby... Where was I...

Walnut tinted
Or cocoa brown,
Pomegranate lipped
Pride of the town.
Rich cream colored
To plum-tinted black,
Feminine sweetness
In Harlem's no lack... Oooo..."

Cleanthe started to pump a bit faster with her hand and mouth, and moved her
other hand beneath to gently cup his balls.

"Aaahh...

Glow of the -- ummm -- quince
To blush of the rose.
Persimmon bronze
To cinnamon toes.
Blackberry cordial,
Viginia Dare wine --
All those sweet colors
Flavor Harlem of mine!

Oh, yes... Oh, baby, that's so incredible..."

Cleanthe flicked her tongue over the tip and underneath his ridge, circling it
with the broad edge of her tongue.  Then she inhaled him as fully as she could
and, with her other palm, squeezed his balls tighter and tighter.  He gasped,
and she wondered if he'd even make it to the end of the poem.

"Wal -- Ah! -- Walnut or cocoa
Let me repeat:
Caramel, brown sugar,
A chocolate treat."

He was speeding up, trying to finish the words before he exploded.  Cleanthe
intensified her pumping and sucking and squeezing, going all out.

"Molasses taffy,
Coffee and -- oh, yes! -- cream,
Licorice, clove, cinnamon
To a honey-brown dream.
Ginger, wine-gold,
Per -- AH! -- simmon, black -- Oh, yes, oh, yes -- Hah-huh-huh-UNGH--"

Cleanthe could feel his penis jerking in her mouth and his leg muscles
clenching as he started to cum, and she pulled her mouth back until only the
tip of his cock was still inside.  As his stuff shot out she sucked harder, her
lips milking him, drawing his juice out of him and into her mouth.  He yelped
and his whole body shuddered, the poem all but forgotten.  As the storm passed
he quieted, and Cleanthe raised her face away from his slick wet cock and wiped
her mouth surreptitiously on the coverlet.  It wasn't that she hated the taste,
exactly, but she wasn't about to swallow all that every single time, either.

Smiling, Cleanthe reached up and snared the book out of his limp fingers, and
found the place.  In a husky voice, she read:

"Ginger, wine-gold,
Persimmon, blackberry,
All through the spectrum
Harlem girls vary --
So if you want to know beauty's
Rainbow-sweet thrill,
Stroll down luscious,
Delicious, FINE Sugar Hill."

Cleanthe frowned, and read the poem again from the beginning -- she hadn't been
paying much attention earlier.  As she wrapped her eyes and mouth around the
rich, luscious images she had to admit that it was a very evocative piece.  She
also liked the way it found so many different ways to describe the beauty of a
black woman, whatever the shade of her skin.  But something about it bothered
her.  Maybe it was the title, "Harlem Sweeties."  Or maybe it had something to
do with Lewis, and why he liked it.  "Lewis?" she said.  A snore was the only
response.  He was asleep.  That had been happening more and more often lately.

Cleanthe swung her legs off the bed and got up.  All of a sudden she felt grimy
and unclean.  Her breasts were clammy and pendulous, her body thick and slow. 
As she stood there looking down at her lover something strange swept over her,
a feeling of disconnectedness, of not belonging.  She looked around the
apartment, his apartment.  A vague disquiet took hold of her, but she couldn't
quite identify its source.  Perhaps a shower would help.

She stood in the tiled shower and let the water course over her.  Maybe some of
the magic is just wearing off, she thought.  Maybe it just gets dull after a
while.  But that wasn't quite right.  She still felt as passionate as she had
before the summer, maybe more.  Then again, she wasn't the one snoring.

Cleanthe shut her eyes tight and raised her face into the shower spray,
enjoying the stinging sensations.  Was he bored with her already?  How could
that be?  He seemed so interested in her, in sharing his books and his ideas
and his knowledge with her.  He shared so many interests with her and they
communicated on such a high level; how could this be anything less than
satisfying?

Cleanthe had no easy answers but she was waterlogged, so she shut off the water
and climbed out of the shower.  She grabbed a towel and commenced drying
herself, but she was still distracted.  Lewis did seem more distant lately, she
admitted.  The sex was the biggest proof.  After they'd moved in together and
she got comfortable Cleanthe had become more aggressive in bed, sometimes more
demanding.  He didn't seem to react well to that: once or twice he'd gotten all
pouty, and he did seem to be falling asleep afterwards a lot quicker than
before.  They were arguing, too.  Cleanthe had spoken her mind once or twice
about some black writers who she felt were too timid or not daring enough in
their writing.  Lewis had been uncharacteristically angry and almost insulting
to her in response, leaving her baffled and frustrated.

Cleanthe propped one foot up on the toilet and rubbed the towel over her inner
thigh and pubis.  I need to talk to someone about this, she thought.  I need to
go out and see somebody besides Lewis and talk this out.  Maybe Momma...?  No,
she wouldn't even think of talking to me right now.  I know, she thought, as
she hung her towel on the door-hook.  I'll go see Cherise.

She dressed quickly without even trying not to wake him; Cleanthe knew that he
wouldn't move a muscle unless a bomb went off in the next-door apartment, and
maybe not even then.  As she left his building with the spare set of keys
dangling from her hand, Cleanthe felt strangely free and alive.  Why do I feel
this way, she thought guiltily.  It's not like I haven't...  Well, actually it
was.  She really hadn't been out alone in at least a month.  Cleanthe mused
about that as she made her way down Broadway to UFM.

Cleanthe went in through the automatic door and basked in the cool air
conditioning for a moment.  She looked around for a minute, and made her way
over to the checkout lines.  Sure enough, there was Cherise, chattering away
with each customer like there was nothing at all on her mind.  In the meantime
her hands were dark blurs, running barcodes past the scanners, counting money,
packing bags.  On her best night Cleanthe had never been able to keep up with
Cherise, not in her work or with her mouth.  Cleanthe moved closer to Cherise's
register and waved.  Cherise looked up for an instant and then pointedly turned
back to her work without acknowledgement.

Cleanthe was stunned.  What the hell was this all about?  She moved closer to
the register, but Cherise refused to look at her.  Cleanthe felt a quick flash
of anger -- who does that bitch think she is? -- but stifled it, and made her
way around to the cashier's side of the line.  Without comment she moved closer
until she stood at the end of Cherise's lane.  When Cherise still said nothing,
Cleanthe bit back the urge to snap at her and instead began to bag the
groceries as Cherise passed them through the scanner.

After they'd rung up three or four customers there was nobody left on line, so
Cherise turned to look at her.  "So," she said in a challenging tone.  "You
back, huh?"  Cleanthe looked at her, letting her hurt show in her face.  "Hi,
Cherise."  Cherise's eyes softened, but didn't yet turn completely friendly. 
"Six weeks and thass all you got to say for yourself?  'Hi Cherise'?  Well?" 
Cleanthe looked down at the rack of plastic bags.  "Look -- 'Reese -- Can we
talk somewhere?  Could we get lunch or something?  I really want to talk to
you.  Please."  Cleanthe raised her eyes and saw Cherise's stony stare. 
"Please," she repeated.  Cherise looked hard at her a moment, and then broke
into a grin.  "Aw shit, baby.  You know I can't stay mad at you when you that
pitiful.  Lemme get my purse and I'll take my lunch."

Ten minutes later they sat on the lawn in front of Butler Library, munching on
chicken-pita sandwiches and eyeing each other as they ate.  Any more of this
silent treatment and I'll go nuts, thought Cleanthe, and she decided it was
time to take the bull by the horns.  

"Why were you acting like I didn't even exist back there?" she demanded.

"Wrx fgsh mrff rarf!" Cherise responded, her mouth full of fajita.  Cleanthe
punched her softly on the arm.  "Didn't yo mama ever teach you not to talk wit'
a full mouth?  Get some manners, Girl!"

Cherise swallowed.  "I *said*, how you think you treated me every time you came
into UFM with Professor Whitebread?"  She glared at Cleanthe.  "You been in
there shopping lotsa times, but I never heard a peep from you then!"

Cleanthe looked away.  "You looked busy," she said, lamely.  Cherise just
looked at her.  "All right, all right," Cleanthe said, dropping her empty
fajita wrapper on the grass.  "I don't know why.  Honest, Reese, I don't know
'zactly why I never said nothing to you."

Cherise looked sharply at her.  "I'll tell you why," she said.  "It's 'cause
you was acting White.  And when you's acting White you can't be bothered to
notice the help."

Cleanthe had a shocked expression on her face, like she had just been slapped. 
She stared at her friend openmouthed and stammered "what... what do you mean by
that?"

Cherise reached over and took her hand.  "Now, now, Girl, I'm not trying to
bust yo ass over this.  But I see this happen all the time with you College
Negroes.  While you in school you acting White all the time.  You can't help it
-- you just fitting in.  But y'all is too busy with yo classes, and yo friends,
and yo *teachers*" -- Cherise stressed that last word and stared fixedly at
Cleanthe -- "to pay no mind to the rest of us who serves you food and cleans up
after you."

Cleanthe looked down at the remains of her lunch, unable to speak.  "Oh, now
don't you go get all upset," Cherise said, laying her hand on Cleanthe's arm. 
"I already told you I ain't mad, so it won't do no good to start crying now." 
Cleanthe nodded; the lump in her throat was too big for her to talk.  "Ancient
history," said Cherise.  "Now why don't you tell me all about Professor W --
the boyfriend."  Cleanthe felt the tears well up and tried to sniffle them
back.  It was no good, and they started leaking out anyway.  She began to sob
uncontrollably.  Cherise took her in her arms and held her for several minutes
until the worst had passed.

"It's that bad?" Cherise asked, after Cleanthe had calmed.  "Oh, Reese,"
Cleanthe answered mournfully.  "It's so bad I can't even take it, and I don't
even know why."  Cleanthe rose from where she'd been resting on Cherise's
shoulder and wiped her eyes on a crumpled napkin.  "Tell me all about it," said
Cherise, and Cleanthe did.  She talked about how wonderful she'd thought it was
-- the lovemaking, the books, their life together -- and how empty she'd begun
to feel.  She unburdened herself to Cherise about all the bad stuff, the things
she had tried not to think about: the huge fight she'd had with Momma when she
moved out, the way she never saw any of her friends any more, the growing
distance she was sensing from Lewis.  She even told her about the poem that
afternoon and how bad she'd felt after the lovemaking.

Cherise snickered.  "So you saying that he got off reading that poem to you?" 
"Well," Cleanthe said, "I'm pretty sure I had something to do with that, but it
felt like it musta been intense."  Cherise laughed outright.  "Damn!  Them
Professors really do like the sound of they own voice, don't they!"  That made
Cleanthe chuckle too.  "I know this one sure does!  Then again, that's what
turned me on in the first place," she added.  "His voice."

"Her master's voice," Cherise murmured, and Cleanthe felt the blood drain out
of her face.  Cherise looked at her pityingly.  "There's your problem, Girl,
and you know it.  You fell for your Professor because of who he was.  And he --
he a middle-aged white Professor with a thang for little -- what you call that
poem?"  "Harlem Sweeties," Cleanthe whispered.  "With a thang for 'Harlem
Sweeties.'  And then along comes you, batting them long eyelashes and moving
all up on him already on the first day.  What you think he gonna do 'bout it?!"

Cleanthe stared at her friend, realization and horror spreading across her
face.  Cherise looked back at her sadly.  "You don't think you was the first,
do you?"  She tried to soften the blow.  "This ain't about you, really.  I see
this all the time 'round here, Professors coming in to shop with they young
students, giggling and hugging and acting like they boyfriend and girlfriend. 
Which they ain't, not really," Cherise added, shaking her head.  "Look at it
this way baby," she said in a soft voice, "at least he don't have a wife and
kids like a lot of them do.  You have no idea how bad it would have been then."
 Cleanthe nodded mutely.

They sat for a long moment, until Cleanthe broke the silence.  "I have to face
him," she said in a near-whisper.  "It can't go on like this.  I won't let it
go on like this."  Cherise nodded approvingly.  "Be strong now, Girl," she
said, "while you can.  Remember who you are -- you Cleanthe, and you got along
without him before and you will again."  Cleanthe nodded her head, but felt a
tear trickling out of her eye.  "I'll miss what we had, though," she said. 
Cherise looked directly into her eyes.  "Maybe you need to think about what you
really did have," she said, "and not just what you thought you had."  Cleanthe
nodded again and hugged her friend tight.  "I know what I have in you, Reese. 
And I'm really, really lucky."  Together they cleaned up the remains of their
lunch, and then Cleanthe headed back toward his apartment.

Cleanthe turned the key and swung the door open.  He was standing there at the
dining-room table flipping through his mail, clad only in a towel.  At her
entry he looked up, frowning.  "Where were you?" he demanded.  "I woke up and
there was nobody there," he said, his tone petulant.  "Where did you go?"

"i am in a box," Cleanthe thought, the words appearing in her mind.  "on a
tight string/ subject to pop/ without notice..."  She stood stock-still,
staring at him without speaking.  He turned and advanced upon her.  "Did you
hear me?" he said angrily.  "I asked you a question!"

Cleanthe dropped the key chain noisily on the table.  She took a deep breath,
put her hand on her hip, and looked directly into his eyes.  "Don't you ever
talk to me like that," she said in a voice that quavered only slightly.  His
eyes widened.  "That's right," she said more boldly.  "*I* will not *permit*
you to speak to me that way.  I am not your nigger, and you had better not
treat me like I am."

She had shocked him, she could see that.  "What's the matter?  You don't like
that word?  It offends you?"  "Hell yes," he retorted, finding his voice. 
"It's an offensive word.  I don't like it, or what it signifies.  I have never
understood just how you people--"  Cleanthe stared at him, her eyes big as
saucers.  "You people?" she repeated incredulously.  "That's right," he
blundered on.  "All those young blacks, on TV and in the buses and on the
streets, going on with 'Nigga This' and 'Nigga That.'  Don't they understand
that--"

Cleanthe interrupted him again.  "Understand?!  I think it's you who doesn't
understand, Lewis.  Who are you to tell me how to talk about black people? 
What the hell would you know about it?"  He slammed the pile of mail in his
hand down on the tabletop.  "I know a hell of a lot about it!" he shouted. 
"Damn it, I know more about black literature and history and art and the black
fucking experience than you'll ever--"

"But you'll never know what it's like to *be* black!" Cleanthe yelled.  "And
none of your precious books are ever going to change that!  You egotistical son
of a bitch -- YOU are going to explain 'black' to ME?!"  He looked abashed, and
so silly standing there in that towel.  "Cleanthe--" he began, but she was too
furious to stop.  "You just remember something, *Doctor* Johnson," she went on
relentlessly.  "'Nigger' isn't some black word, it's a white one.  And it's no
good for you to get all upset and offended about it now, not after you people
-- YOU PEOPLE -- have been calling black people 'niggers' for almost four
hundred years.  It was your books taught me that," Cleanthe said bitterly. 
"Your books that you wanted me to read so's I could be more educated, more
aware.  So," Cleanthe continued, flinging the words at him, "do you like me
now?  Am I everything you wanted me to be?"

He looked so completely baffled there in his towel, his damp feet leaving wet
marks on the wooden floor.  Cleanthe found herself irritated that such an
intelligent man could be so dense.  "Don't you see?" she asked, more gently. 
"The term's over, Lewis.  We're not in class any more, and you can't be my
teacher forever.  I'm not your student or your protege.  I'm Cleanthe Wilson,
and I need you to respect that."

He took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before expelling it.  They
regarded each other silently, and then he crossed over the space between them
and took her rigid, unyielding form in his arms.  "Look, Cleanthe," he
murmured.  "I do respect you.  I understand now.  Why don't we just go back
into the bedroom and lie down, and we can just forget this whole fight ever
happened.  I could read some poetry -- you like that -- and then we could, you
know..."

Cleanthe pulled back and looked up at him, tears glistening in her eyes.  "You
didn't hear a single word I said," she whispered, as an agonizing ache started
in her chest and then spread to her belly, twisting up her insides.  "You just
can't see me, can you?"  She could feel the tears leaking out of her eyes and
running down her face, but she refused to stanch the flow.  "All you want is
pussy, don't matter how you get it.  That's why you come tomcatting 'round the
black quarters in the first place, to get you some of that young, black pussy. 
And when you're through with one, you'll just go get another."

"Cleanthe--" he put his hand on her shoulder "--you're upset.  Please, let me
help.  Do you need more space?  Is that it?  I'll do anything you want.  Just
calm down."  Cleanthe jerked away from his touch as if it burned her.  "Don't
you get it?" she howled, tears streaming down.  "I'm not going to be your
'Harlem Sweetie' any more!  I refuse to be just one more of your
persimmon-sepia-chocolate treats!  Do you really think I don't know about the
others?"  He reeled backwards as her angry words struck at him.  "How many?"
she shouted in fury.  "How many young black pussies have you fucked already? 
Do you even remember all the names, or do you just catalogue us by color, like
in your poem, your favorite fucking poem?!?"  He staggered back further until
he bumped into the table, unable to withstand the force of her temper.

Cleanthe stopped, letting the red haze dissipate and her rapid breathing return
to normal.  Her vision cleared and she looked at her lover where he stood
opposite her, cringing before her rage.  "Never mind," she said in a voice
filled with sorrow and an aching weariness.  "I really don't want to know
anyway.  It's over, Lewis, over and done with.  And no," she said wryly, a
bitter half-smile twisting her face, "there's not going to be a farewell fuck
this time."  He looked puzzled, but Cleanthe really didn't care enough to
explain.

She walked over to the dining room table and picked up the keys she had tossed
there before.  "I'm gonna come back for my stuff tonight, about seven," she
said.  "I'd appreciate it if you weren't here while I pack."  She jangled the
keys in her hand, staring at them for a long moment, and then pulled the
apartment door open.

"So that's it?" he said behind her, pitifully.  She turned and looked at him
over her shoulder.  "That's it," she said.  "But don't worry.  In less than two
months you'll be teaching African-American Literature again, and I'm sure that
Doctor Lewis Johnson will have no trouble finding another pretty young student
who's eager to learn."  With that she let go of the door, and she left it
hanging open as she made her way down the hall.

As Cleanthe left the building and walked down Broadway a poem unfolded within
her, the poem that she had heard earlier, during the fight.


everybody says how strong
i am

i would not reject
my strength
though its source
is not choice
but responsibility

something within demands
action
or words
if action is not possible


Cleanthe's head was clear, her mind's eye bright.  The ache in her heart would
be slow in passing, she knew, but somehow that was all right too.  What
mattered now was that the words were no longer his alone.  The words could be
hers as well, now that she had made it so.  She was no longer content to accept
the words of others.  Now it was time for her to express her own words.  And
she was finally ready.


i write because
i have to



_____________________________________

END



INSPIRATION:

Langston Hughes, "The Negro Speaks of Rivers," "Young Negro Girl," "Harlem
Sweeties," "Harlem Night Club," "Love."  Nikki Giovanni, "Boxes."  George
Bernard Shaw, "Pygmalion" (and the later "My Fair Lady").  Martin Scorcese,
Nick Nolte, and Rosanna Arquette, "Life Lessons."

E-mail: <TariaT@aol.com>
Web Page: <http://members.aol.com/TariaT>

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