When her name comes on ma mind
I get jealous.
When I think of her
I get jealous.
When I meet her
I get jealous.
Undulately I get jealous
Not of her…
Actually I get jealous
Of another person, not her.
She that I think of is from the land of the black man
And from the inside of a black woman.
She tells you what her black pot contains and leaves you with a choice.
Again, I get jealous
Not of her, but of “another”
Of “another” whom she may get pissed off by his action, but still loves him.
Of “another” whom she sees when eyes is closed
I get jealous of the “another”
Who she decides to drink from his well
Of the “another” whom she lies by in the dark-room with tomorrow.
“Another’ who will have what I’m so proud of.
She is the white walking angel from the land of the black man.
From the inside of the black woman.
I’m proud of all that I know she is,
And all that I know not she is.
