Black Venus Fly Trap: Poetry from Jeanetta Rich

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In her debut collection of poetry Black Venus Fly Trap, published by Deluge Books, Jeanetta Rich focuses on the emotional lives of voiceless women, those who have been silenced through poverty and/or lack of education. While the struggles of womanhood are axiomatic, Jeanetta in turn asks her audience to acknowledge the unique plight and positioning of Black women that renders their mistreatment invisible, creating a pretext for hushed isolation. Below is a preview of poetry from the collection.

If Zizek Heard My Thoughts During Sex

Lars Von Trier hates women.

Although he’s my favorite filmmaker.

___STEADY_PAYWALL___

When I was a kid

I would sneak to watch Breaking The Waves.

There was something terribly wrong with me.

I identified with Bess,

whose husband would request

for her to commit random acts of sex in order to revive him

of his illness.

I fantasize about being your fantasy.

How to cum quickly without shedding tears.

How to tear open your back in search of myself.

How to avoid the voice of my mother and haphazardly I

come across the voice of God.

In reality it’s my ballet teacher.

Saying handle your core with care,

clearly I haven’t

I insist that you fuck me head down ass up.

smash my face into a pillow

Impede my hearing until the ringing drowns out

all my layers of emptiness.

A part of me thinks it’s sweet when you do.

Think of How it feels to pique turn

without spotting and I want to feel that way now.

How did my ballet teacher get over his dizzy spells?

I am remembering little boys snickering at him outside of

the community center.

Bursting out of their teeth you’re gay. He invited them to

dance class.

He reminded me to be careful.

Because of him I have no fear.

But what do I do with the shame?

I can’t be as cursed as grandmother who gave birth to

a glutton

a drunk

a homosexual

and a body full of bullets.

You want to film me sucking your cock. Sure.

At this moment I am reminded of my uncle and his camera.

Uncle set out to San Francisco in the late 70s

with no one to tell him

handle with care.

Upon his return

Uncle took pictures of me.

They were out of focus.

Uncle must have been losing his eyesight.

This too is the story of My Aunt

a large woman

a woman who ate too many biscuits

a woman with no legs

on her deathbed whispering family secrets.

1. Don’t eat so many biscuits

2. You are cursed

3. Richard, the man who gifted you the gold

necklace, with a garnet stone pendant, was not

just your Uncle’s roommate.

This, I already knew.

I acquired the knowledge prior,

I was 3 years old, playing in the basement.

Father couldn’t mourn Uncle’s death without righteously

blaming those faggots.

I watched him teeter between Anger and Grief. Then his

head bowed onto mother’s chest.

I like my tits sucked

but now I’m picturing father’s tears rolling down

mother’s cleavage.

I’m taking too long to cum.

Actually I’ve given up.

So I laugh to make you think I’m here.

Something is terribly wrong with me.

I think of grandmother who lost three of her four children

before she died.

I think I can’t be as cursed as grandmother.

She must have experienced rejection from grandfather after

he found out she gave birth

to a glutton

a drunk

a homosexual

and a body full of bullets

Think of how Uncle never came out because his little

brother was shot in the head. Think of every gay

black man who must be in the same predicament.

Think, how fucked up to believe dying with AIDS

is less valid than being killed with a gun? All black

lives matter. Fuck George Floyd is kinda fine.

Think of George Floyd, all his muscles crushing

your chest–and I’m wet again! Boy, If Uncle were

alive he’d tell me to stop being such a stupid bitch

over cocktails.

I need a

drink right now.

In fact, the last time we did this, we were drunk.

That’s why it went so well. I laugh again. You think

I’m laughing because I’m having a good time but

I’m laughing at my dead uncle, his ashes, sprinkled

over the San Francisco bridge by grandmother.

Think of how grandmother’s ashes are in a zip lock

bag in the basement. Think you’re not as cursed as

Grandmother.

Please, bang out my gut so I can forget who I am for

a while — punishment for being a woman. Think, of

how my father is dying of cancer and no one to bear his

name. Just think if I could fuck freaky hard long enough

every black man, I could stop my father from dying. I

could resurrect all the names. Just like in that Lars Von

Trier film...

Sestina For Coco

I didn't care to hear the news

of Coco's edges being snatched out 

by her lover just released from prison 

according to my Instagram feed 

the hood had moved up and over

or pushed further down

avoiding the stench of pro-style gel, when the gutter washes it down 

Coco used cruelty-free product only, was the latest news

frenzied crowds  spill over 

fans only was too loud I had to get the fuck out

the sound of strands tearing from follicles isn't quality ASMR for your feed 

but I’m engaged to this prison 

I wanted to believe one of us was exotic enough to escape this raggedy ass prison   

or at least  raggedy ass edges- Coco you let me down

you looking stale as  fuck on my feed 

the nation  speaks to daughters of the  world’s  news:

a status quo ho gets eaten out

toggling tips of  acrylics gilded over 

monumental manifesto messed over 

melancholy mothers mourn at the prison  

we used to be theirs  to chew out 

bare and farel monkey-ass-ho a barrel she stares down 

tongue and cheekbones spew out the  news

holy shit it's time to feed! 

Fools rush in for the feed'n 

silver spoon bitches keep biting her style, Coco just got her nails did over 

all the while she scrolls through the many dreams of barbie doll's news 

feeds In prison 

catatonic Collision Countdown 

any ounce of dignity, left out 

dogged out  

she still breathing and gotta  feed

forsaken and cast down 

couldn't mask her frowns over

there's plenty to be found for her  in this prison

have you heard the good news ?

trending  news

later for that dead shit prison 

ol’ girl  over

Bottom Bitch

I managed not to spit in the food I served you today

When you’re drunk enough you spit into your wife’s mouth

– picture my face

My lips

Part and say

Have a nice day sir.

Thank you and come again

on my tits this time

So not to suffer your seed

So your seed won’t suffer

The system you thrive in

And deny in its partition of

classracesex

You take ownership over my body at any moment

bedroom

hospital

court

school

You’ve said you love me

but I can’t move

into your

house

Poetry: Jeanetta Rich