EZRA
“I w r i t e f o r the ones who ain’t made peace wit’ the mirror. For the boy who got jumped, then grew colder and then realer. I write for the ones who bleed in bars. Tattoo pain into rhythm, got trauma behind every scar. For the one-eyed poet wit’ a past he don’t speak, who learned early love ain’t for the hurt or the weak.
I write for the hood, my hood, where the flowers don’t bloom. Where they bury babies in spring and mothers wail at the moon. For the girl wit’ the pain in her laugh who sips wine wit' her girls but feel broken in half. I don’t write for applause, don’t write for clout. I write to survive. To pull the hurt out.”
My voice faded into the dark hush of the room, thick with heat, Vape smoke and liquor. A few folks hollered, snapped, and clapped like their hands were testifying.
“Aight then, Ezra!”
“Say that shit, bro!”
“You killed that, Lowe!”
I gave a slight nod, slid the mic back into the stand, and stepped down slowly from the makeshift stage at The Lit Room. It was an underground lounge where my boy Mekai bartended most nights. As I made my way through the crowd, a couple daps and hugs came my way. Some came from familiar faces who’d seen me spill myself in lines more times than I could count.
“You still got it,” Mekai grinned, leaning over the bar with two shots of Henny already waiting. The lights bounced off his gold grill as he handed one to me. “That last line? 'Pull the hurt out?' Nigga, you spazzed.”
I tapped the shot glass to his. “That’s ‘cause I’m fucked up, bro. Still pullin’.”
He laughed and knocked his shot back. “Ain’t we all. But real talk, it’s time you stop playin’ small. That poem?” He pointed at the stage. “That’s not local heat. That’s somethin’ they need to hear worldwide.”
I sipped slowly, letting the burn coat my throat before answering. “I ain’t built for that shit.”
“Fuck all that,” he said. “You got presence that comes wit' a voice and a story to tell. Plus, you got that mysterious one-eye thing goin’ for ya. Bitches love a lil’ danger.”
I smirked. “You sound like my PR rep, nigga.”
“I am ya PR rep, unofficially, mahfucka. Now,” He leaned in, eyes cutting past me. “You peep shorty in the back?”
I didn’t have to turn. I already knew who he was talking about. The third time she’d been here. She sat in that same corner every time, laughing low with her girls and sipping something red. Skin glowing like brown sugar in candlelight with thick locs tied up in a burnt orange scarf. She wore big ass bamboo earrings spelling “QUEEN” and a tight brown dress that hugged her frame. She was slim thick and looked like a late summer night in the city. All warm, unpredictable and unforgettable.
“I seen her,” I said, still facing the bar.
“Bro, she been lookin’ at you.”
“Nah,” I corrected, “she been listenin’ to me.”
He clapped me on the back. “Even better. You gon’ talk to her tonight?”
“Thinkin’ ‘bout it.”
Just then, a girl slid up beside me. Skin deep honey, lashes thick, and her titties practically introduced themselves before she said a word. “Ezra, right?” she asked, eyes low and sticky. “That piece you did? Gave me chills.”
“‘Ppreciate it,” I said, nodding but not leaning in.
She bit her lip, fingers grazing the ink on my forearm. “You got a girl?”
I glanced past her. She was gathering her things. Laughing at something her homegirl said, sliding the rest of her drink to the middle of the table, grabbing her tiny purse. Time was ticking. I stepped back and nodded toward the door. “My fault, sweetheart, but I gotta catch somebody.”
Mekai snorted. “Run, Forrest.”
I gave him the finger as I dipped through the crowd, the hum of music and conversation swallowing me until I pushed the door open and stepped into the sticky summer night. It was the middle of June and the air smelled like fried food, weed smoke, and heat. Streetlights bounced off the sidewalks.
I spotted her half a block up, walking with her girls in high sandals and flowy dresses. Her head fell backward as she laughed, and I swear it echoed straight down my spine. “Yo.”
She turned around first. Her girls slowed behind her, eyeing me like I might be trouble, which was fair. I probably was. Her eyes narrowed. “You talking to me?”
I smiled. “I been talkin’ to you.” That made her stop completely.
She angled her body toward me, still keeping one heel planted like she wasn’t about to let me get too close just yet. “You’re the poet, right?”
I nodded. “Ezra.”
“Yavanni,” she said, drawing it out slowly like she wanted to see if I could handle it.
“Beautiful name.”
“I know.”
That made me laugh. “Confident, huh?”
She tilted her head. “Is that all you followed me out here for? My name?”
“Only followed you to make sure you didn’t miss ya blessin’.”
“Oh, is that what you are?” she asked, crossing her arms. The gold earrings glinted under the streetlight.
“That’s what I’m tryna figure out,” I said, stepping closer. “You been at the last three open mics. Front row energy from the back of the room.”
Her lip twitched. “Maybe I like poetry.”
“Or maybe you like me.”
Her girls hooted behind her. One fake-fanned herself. “He fine, girl. I’d fold like a pretzel.”
Yavanni didn’t flinch. Just stared at me like she was trying to decode my face, my posture and my pain. “You always this forward, Ezra?” she asked.
“Only when I see somethin’ I like.”
She looked me up and down slowly, thoughtfully, maybe a little amused. Her eyes lingered and I could tell she noticed the way my left eye didn’t track movement like the right. Most people looked away but she didn't.
“You blind in one eye?”
I nodded once. “Yeah.”
She didn’t say sorry. Just replied, “Still fine.” That cracked something in me. “So,” she asked, biting the corner of her lip, “you just gonna stand there looking all mysterious or you gonna ask for my number?”
I grinned. “I was gon’ ask if you wanted to walk.”
She glanced at her girls, who immediately made “ooh” noises before waving her off and crossing the street. Alone now, Yavanni stepped beside me. Not too close, not too far but close enough like she was ready for something just not all at once.
“So what’s next, Ezra?” she asked as we started walking.
I looked over at her glowing skin, her slanted eyes, and her pouty mouth that looked like it held stories and secrets. “Next,” I said. “I walk wit’ you a lil’ bit. We talk a lil’ more. And if that goes right… maybe you let me write a poem 'bout the way ya laugh makes the moon jealous.”
She laughed. And just like that, I knew I was already in too deep.