It’s easy to take aim—at you—
when you’re standing on top of the world,
arms wrapped up in the recognition
of the success they never expected.
Transcending fleeting fad to indubitable icon.
Hair not blond—short black locs.
Eyes not blue—a pair of dark almonds.
Lips not just full, fully heart shaped.
Belting out bars confidently combining contralto verses.
The voice of now, yesteryear, and tomorrow from one soul.
Then there was the year success raged,
Music executives were enraged.
Closed fists pounding on tables,
attempting to define you,
telling you which place was yours,
freshening the painted line
to reinforce that it had been crossed.
Too much lady,
educating the world on complex, urban love stories.
An exposed midriff set above Timbos and baggy jeans
made you lustful.
Not enough old lady
to be controlled by the old ways of men.
Steadfast in a refusal to acquiesce
made you a villain
The unyielding spirit,
they had to undermine, discredit,
and claim plagiarize!
All of it.
The shit they made up.
Was nothing but lies.
It’s impossible to posit
what it means to be everything.
Everything that could not be duplicated.
A silent wormhole of what could have been
left in the wake of your absence.
A void yet to be filled.
It wasn’t as if we just lost one,
it was the one.
What could have been created
in over two decades,
If the needle stayed firmly on the track?
The stars teach us
some things only come once in a lifetime.
But astrology does not reveal
all her secrets at once.
And when the score is settled,
with cosmic alignment,
the world will know that super stars do not disappear.
They circle back.