Early Harvest

Before I begin this next piece,

I want to say something clearly.

This poem deals with themes of grooming,

manipulation,

and the targeting of innocence.

If that touches something personal for you,

please take care of yourself.

Scroll away if you need to.

Pause. Breathe. Come back later — or don’t.

You don’t owe this poem your discomfort.

You don’t owe this page your retraumatization.

There is no weakness in protecting your peace.

I wrote this poem in response to a challenge

from a spoken word curator during Mental Health Month —

a challenge to write about pain.

But instead of doing something generic,

I wanted to write something raw,

something layered,

something that hits.

This piece is called Early Harvest...

Eve was such a narcissist—

Self-centered and selfish.

Pulled out of Adam’s rib so cleanly

That her heart was left behind.

Her chest cavity lined with lead and filled with ego;

No wonder she was easy prey for Shaitan to snake his way in,

Like manhood entering a Vagina Monologue about low self-esteem.

You gotta catch ’em young.

Why couldn’t Eve just leave well enough alone?

Just follow one simple rule: don’t eat the fruit.

A rule so simple, the fruit didn’t even have a name,

But her brain was so stuck on E(go), she got played by the game.

Using her wiles to confuse poor Adam,

Who acted like a bull with a ring in his nose,

Following Eve right into eviction.

Heaven's loss was so traumatic

Every generation feels its absence coiled in its DNA,

And Eve just walks away,

Stamping her heel down on the devil's head—

Red bottoms dancing a toxic tango.

You gotta catch them young…

Because when they get older, they only pretend to love you.

Pain and misery will be your lover,

Malice your mistress,

So you decide to love her horizontally—

For only as long as her id stays vertical.

Play her private parts like a piano,

Her blood on keys,

Making dots only you can connect.

Kisses on her navel meant to save her from herself,

So she doesn't become Jezebel or the liar who locked up the Prophet Joseph.

Kiss her and turn her into Aaliyah,

Instead of that Hooters girl who tells me lies

Just to get me to buy a few more buffalo wings.

You gotta catch ’em young...

Okay, maybe Eve shouldn't bear all the blame;

After all, the wife before her left chasing the kiss of demons,

Rather be a succubus than a servant.

They say trauma demands retribution.

So if I stab stubby fingers at the flower of my four-year-old stepdaughter,

Just pretend I'm not being abusive;

I'm just being a shaman with the healer's touch.

I pray hard she keeps quiet;

If I get caught, it won't cost me too much.

I'll just keep pretending I'm Muslim.

Maybe wear my kufi tighter,

Lift my prayer rug a little higher,

So the community can sweep its complicity under it swiftly,

Hiding away all our pain while we point fingers at other religions.

Even though the mosque is no different than the cathedral—

We both got pulpits that sit on deep pits of dark secrets,

Secrets that I whisper in her shivering ear.

Let this be justice for all the Salomes that killed Johns,

For Cleopatra, Medusa, and Nicki Minaj.

This is reparation for being blamed in long poems and for deep pain,

For Lot’s daughters who preyed on their father

All because he went ghost on their mama.

I caught you young, but I think you're ready.

Don’t tell nobody and I will buy you that Barbie,

That Brat doll, that Easy-Bake Oven.

And when you outgrow me, I'll buy you the latest teen fashion and your first cell phone.

I’ll pop up at your school and cheer for you on field day,

And no one will know why you tense up or glance away

At family get-togethers or at the end of Ramadan.

And I’ll be okay—I’ll always remember what your tears taste like.

Knowing I am in your pores will be an intimate satisfaction.

Subconsciously, you will compare all of your boyfriends to me.

The only place you’ll spill our secret is a marble journal,

Because I have ingeniously sculpted you

Like a maniacal Michelangelo,

Convinced you that no one could love you like I do,

That only someone my age could see you for who you really are.

"This is nothing sexual," as everyone is told;

It’s just... being with you makes me forget that I'm old.

You gotta catch them young—

It’s not my fault -  you came on to me!

My arms and lap became your solace because

Your mama doesn’t really love you like she does the job she leaves you for at night;

Your daddy doesn’t love you as much as he loves hating your mama.

So don’t worry, if the weight of me on your mind gets too heavy to carry,

I’ll teach you to transfer your anger onto the next

Man your mama marries;

After all, he’ll probably be tall, mean, and scary.

I’m confident your scars will heal if you keep them out of the light

And keep me away from your little sister.

And in time, the mistake of your mother Eve will be forgiven,

And we’ll all eventually be able to get back into heaven,

Where we’ll get to eat the fruit,

And finally learn its name...