Poetry Flowers Wilt With Luxury
Editorial Reflection on co-curating Issue 3 of the Wellspringwords® Literary Anthology | The Sensualist…
What if I told you that The Sensualist is not afraid of the ongoing conversation with themselves, their body, and the bodies of existence around them? As a fat Black woman also existing in the nonbinary community, the sensual discussion with my body started when I began pleading with my hips at nine to keep the hula hoop circling.
The sensations became echoes of the maturation of our Black girl bodies as my home girls talked at every school dance, determining whether we would dance full out with every part of our bodies in motion and whether our hips would be too sensual for our mothers' liking. The conversation became more intense as my body began to talk to me about the levels of intimacy and sensuality to find in my friendships, my family relationships, my romantic adventures, and my own body as it grew. Being a sensualist meant realizing that my body grew flowers because being sensual required so much toiling of the soil, watering with arousal of thought and actions, and deep prayer for the orgasmic joy of watching your flowers bloom.
However, no one prepared me for the moment where those flowers would wilt, how the wilting would be tied to not caring for my body and refusing to listen to it when it screamed for rest or release. The Sensualist listens to the rhythm of their body as it is a planting and growing moment of intimacy.
I’m in the season where my flowers, i.e, my poems, are wilting. Reading and viewing the submissions of this Wellspringwords® Literary Anthology issue reminded me of some sensations from bodily exploration to the sensation of creating a piece of art. The words of discovery from other women of color about lapses in or abundant conversations with our bodies, our intimate relationships, and our creations tied to our sensuality made me mindful that even when I have ignored the conversation with my sensual nature, the garden does grow again even after wilting.
The stories told from the visuals and writing in this issue are testimonies to the gardens created by many sensualists that nurture communities, and place faith in me to return to that ongoing conversation.
Here is a poem written during reading submissions that symbolized the realization of the ways I needed to continue in conversation and replant my garden of sensuality.
Poetry Flowers Wilt With Luxury
I didn’t bring any flowers for you
I was too busy tucking weapons behind my tongue
Just in case my grief caused a flood bigger than the one Noah once warned us about
But I was too busy grinding down my body that even a bath filled with flowers of your apologies could not save me.
And still in all my glory, when the flowers of my life did wilt, I was too tired to plant them again.
Knew someone could lay them on my grave
Or at the side of my soul-filled hospital bed
Cause we have no worries attending another memorial for a Black woman’s dreamings
Line the coffin with rows of dirt linked to their one hidden anxiety, turned into heart attacks that could have been avoided if someone had bothered to help plant the flowers.
My weapon had begun to cut my tongue out
I tried to fix it
Tried to hold on to the belief that if god made dirt, then dirt couldn’t hurt
But it did, but still people kept asking me to be the fertilizer
For poetic flowers on stage
Cause they knew me to be brave enough to have gone through the grief, the grind, and a glorious story to tell
But I didn’t bring any flowers for you
Cause rarely are they given to me to last
I brought weapons and an army of poets who wanted to plant a garden fuller than me.
Maybe they will bury me with the roses, with a prayer that I will never wilt.
Their tongues are new weapons for mines and the world's thorns.
As these flowers, these weapons, this poetry is as free as we make ourselves believe.
Till we question again and welcome a new generation of poets to figure out why
This poetry is not a luxury.
