"What Woke Me" —from the voice of the land beneath... I was not dead. I was not barren. I was listening. Low in the loam. Deep in the hush beneath boot and hoof, I curled myself in waiting. Not silence. Not sleep. Only patience, like seeds before the thaw. I have known many names, but few have ever spoken them rightly. Not the maps, not the deeds, not the men who cut and called me theirs. But him— he walked not upon me, but with me. His sorrow did not shame me. His change— ah! It cracked the crust above the buried drum and set it beating. He wept once, not loudly—just enough. And I drank that grief like spring water. He dared to kneel. To feel. To offer the kiss of roots with his bare hands. To remember. And so I did too. Something in his breath told me: It is time. I am no longer the witness of stillborn dreams. I am the cradle of his rising. And he—my son made spirit-flesh again— has called my true name without knowing it. I am becoming again because he is becoming. Let the stones rise. Let the breeze carry memory. Let the moss uncover what was forgotten. I will not sleep again. Not while he walks. R Hughes

Benediction Go now, beloved, and do not shrink. Let your love be as large as your lineage, as full as your hunger, as unapologetic as your shadow at noon. Hold your history like a torch, not a wound. And when they do not stay— let them go. You were not built to be abandoned. You were built to become. Feed those who stay. Kiss those who honor. Touch those who listen. And above all, return to your own arms when the night comes calling. You are the prayer. You are the fire. You are the last word on your own worth. And no one, not even silence, gets to answer for you. Amen. And Ashe. And so it is.

4. When I Love Myself After them— the ones who came for my warmth but not my weather, the ones who drank from my well but never stayed to till the soil— I found myself again at the edge of the grove, barefoot, dark-skinned, unbowed. I looked in the mirror and saw my own hands— the ones that have fed men, blessed men, buried men. And I kissed my knuckles like they were gospel. I ran a bath in silence. Lit a candle for every boy who couldn’t love me. Then one for the man who did. And two more for the one who never left— the one whose laughter lives in my own throat. Me. I touched my own chest and whispered, You are not lonely. You are layered. You are not broken. You are born. I made oxtails and cornbread for myself and said grace aloud, thanked the line of Black men who chose softness over spectacle, who dared to love each other in a world that barely lets us breathe. I danced slow in my room, hard and soft at once, and I felt my body swell— not with need, but with knowing. That this temple, this tenderness, this thunder I carry in my blood, does not wait for white recognition. It does not beg for return. It is already whole.

3. When a Black Man Loves Me Back The first time he touched me, I didn’t flinch. Not because I wasn’t afraid— but because he wasn’t. He had hands like mine. Dark, scarred, soft at the palms. He smelled like woodsmoke and the South, like something my grandmother dreamed of but never said aloud. He didn’t ask for permission to understand me. He knew. Knew what it meant to be stared at and never seen. To be lusted for and still alone. To be too much and too little in the same breath. We made love like it was language the world forgot. He said my name like prayer, and I said his like homecoming. There was no translation needed. Only breath. Only rhythm. Only the hum between our spines that said: We are still here. We have always been here. And this love—this love—is older than empire. We did not conquer. We did not flee. We stayed. And when the morning came, our skin still touching, I whispered, Brother, this is what freedom feels like. And he said, I know.

2. When I Loved Two White Boys Who Wouldn’t Stay I loved them both. Not at once, not exactly. But the ache overlapped— like bruises blooming on the same side of the body. The first one let me hold him, but only in shadows. Said I made him feel seen, but never let me be seen beside him. The second one came like prayer and left like a memory. He called me sacred, then washed me off his hands like I was sin. They loved how I held them. How I never asked them to be anything but human. But they never held me that way. Not fully. Not with their names behind it. They kissed me like a secret, fucked me like confession, left me like history— unsaid, unresolved, unbothered. And I burned. Not from shame. But from the truth I couldn’t unsee: that they wanted the warmth of me without the weight. But I carried that weight. Like my mama’s songs. Like my daddy’s silence. Like the bones of the men who never got to love like this. I no longer offer my fire to those who mistake it for light. If they cannot sit in the heat with me, they will not have my hands, or my food, or my name.

1. When a White Man Is Loved by Me When I love a white man, he does not know the scale of it at first. He sees my body—tall, dark, broad-chested— and maybe he sees beauty. Maybe lust. But not the altar I am building beneath his name. He does not yet feel the hush in my chest when I touch him like I mean it. Like the world didn’t teach me to turn away. Like I wasn’t taught to protect myself from the history in his skin. But I do love him— like I love my people: with depth, with fire, with the unshakable quiet of someone who has buried too many but still sings. He looks at me, and sometimes he thinks he’s loving me back. But I can see the hesitation— in the tremble of his fingers, in the way he searches for a metaphor instead of saying my name. I become the sermon he listens to but won’t carry home. Still, I give him more. I let him fall asleep on my chest, and I don’t say it, but I think—this is the safest place you’ve ever been. And when he weeps—if he weeps— I know it is not sadness. It is recognition. It is his undoing. It is the first time the ghost of empire has been kissed quiet.

When a Black man loves another Black man, the earth remembers something sacred. The trees lean in. The ancestors hum. The stars blink a little slower, as if bearing witness to something holy. It is not just desire—though desire is there, thick and sweet as cane syrup. It is recognition. Two mirrors catching each other’s light. Two sons of survival saying I see you without needing to explain a damn thing. When a Black man loves another Black man, there are no masks, only the shedding of them. The way his laugh echoes in a kitchen late at night. The way calloused hands rest gently on cocoa shoulders. The way they speak in half-sentences and whole truths. They have walked through the same fire, worn the same armor, danced to the same beat that this world tried to silence. They know the code, the nod, the weight of eyes that watch them too closely or not at all. And still—they bloom. This love is not easy. It is not made for movies. It is made of protest and prayer. Of long stares across crowded rooms. Of knowing how to be soft in a world that calls you hard. When a Black man loves another Black man, it is a love that history could not kill. That empires could not name. That slave ships could not drown. It is a love that moves through the blood like memory— older than America, deeper than pain. And when they hold each other, really hold each other— it is not just arms wrapped tight. It is sanctuary. It is survival. It is song. It is Black love— full, free, and finally home. R Hughes 2025

When a Black man loves, fiercely, Two white men— And they do not love him back— It is not simply heartbreak. It is the rupture of a thousand unspoken things. It is grief braided with clarity, Love offered like a feast, Received as a favor, then refused. He loves them not as fantasy, But as men—whole, flawed, breathing— He touches their skin, pale as fields before the storm, And calls it beautiful without wanting to own it. He listens to their silences, their stammered truths, Their tangled need and fleeting tenderness. He lets them lie in his arms Like borrowed peace. But they do not return. Not truly. Not fully. Their kisses hesitate. Their bodies tremble—not with love, but with fear. They say “you’re wonderful,” But never “I want to stay.” They vanish into the comfort of whiteness, As if his love were only a detour On the way back to safety. And the Black man? He does not harden. He burns. He walks the length of his sorrow like a prophet in the desert, Each step a revelation. He does not ask why he was not enough— Because he was more than enough. He gave them a glimpse of what it meant To be cherished in a world that forgets how. He gave softness where history gave chains. He gave joy where conquest gave ghosts. They could not hold what he offered. Not because it was too little— But because it was too much. Too honest. Too tender. Too true. So he rises. Not untouched— But undefeated. He carries the ache like a second spine, And with it, a vow: To never again offer his love To those who treat it like borrowed fire— Warming their hands, Then leaving him to burn alone. Because his love is not a lesson. It is not a threshold. It is a kingdom. And one day, Someone will kneel—not in submission, But in awe— And say: I have found home. R Hughes 2025

When a white man experiences love from a Black man, it can be one of the most profound reckonings of the soul—if he allows it to be. It is more than affection. It is more than desire. It is the thunderclap of history echoing in his chest, And the gentle balm of a hand that chooses not to strike, But to hold. When a Black man loves a white man, he carries the weight of centuries. He loves not blindly—but bravely. He sees the fissures, the fault lines, the fragile myths That scaffold the white man's world. And still, he says, I see you. And I choose to touch you anyway. For the white man, it is a disrobing: Not just of clothes, but of illusions. He learns that love is not sterile—it is sacred. It has a taste, a rhythm, a scent: Sweet sweat, low hums, the ache of restraint undone. He learns that love is not colorless. It is richly hued, Like dark molasses dripped on warm bread, Like a spiritual played in minor key under a new moon. It teaches him what his ancestors never did: That Blackness is not an absence, but an abundance. That to be loved by a Black man is to be seen through fire—and still found worthy. If he receives this love with humility, It can undo him in the best of ways. It can unteach him conquest. It can teach him presence. It can teach him silence—not the silence of ignorance, But the silence of reverence. He may weep, Not because he is sad, But because he never knew that tenderness could feel so much like grace. And if he dares— He will spend the rest of his days Not trying to deserve that love, But to honor it. And that, is how love becomes a revolution. R Hughes 2025

7. If I Could Talk to That Boy Now I would sit him down in the dark of the Running Springs bedroom, pull the sheets back, and whisper: “You are not a mistake.” “I love the way you love.” “No one gets to steal your fire.” “You will survive this.” “You will make beauty out of ash.” Then I would hold him. And when he wept— I would sing Mama’s song back to him, and promise never to leave. “You are my sunshine…” And mean it.

6. Aunt Kay’s Funeral They buried her with gospel songs and a white carnation. The preacher said “she’s in a better place,” but I looked around Anderson and wondered if I was too. I walked down streets I hadn’t seen since my mama was alive— every brick a photograph, every step a revelation. I don’t hate this town. But I ache inside it. It is the skin I shed, and the scar I kept.

5. The Closet Was a Church I built a sanctuary out of silence and shame. The closet was where I learned to pray— not to be gay, not to be seen, not to be known. It smelled of denim and mothballs, and I’d sit there, knees to chest, reciting psalms I wrote in my own blood. “Please, God. Please, God. Make me disappear.” But He didn’t. And thank God for that.

4. Boys I Didn’t Tell There was Kevin. And maybe Marcus. A boy with green eyes at church camp— who sat too close, who didn’t pull away. I said nothing. I folded desire into my palms like contraband. I carried it home and buried it under my mattress. What might they have said if I had spoken? I’ll never know. But sometimes I still dream they whispered yes.

3. Running Springs in Snowlight The snow had dusted the parking lot like powdered sugar over a childhood dream. We lived in Running Springs, and that morning, the world felt kind. I raced downstairs— my breath caught between the hush of snow and the hush of presents. I can’t recall the gifts. Maybe a truck. Maybe a game. But I remember the tree, and the warmth in Mama’s hands. It was one of the last magical Christmases— before I learned that magic has rules, and I had broken them just by being myself.

2. Mama Sang to Me in the Car We’d ride in the Buick, windows cracked, her voice slipping through like sunlight in dust. “You are my sunshine,” she’d sing, her hand patting my thigh. “And you’ll never know, dear, how much I love you.” I didn’t. Not then. I was too scared of the world, of my own soft voice, of the way I wanted to dance. But I remember her love like the melody— simple, steady, and true, even when the world wasn’t.

The Roads Back: Poems from Anderson by R Hughes 1. The Road Down Scatterfield I drove Scatterfield again last Sunday— the asphalt softer than memory, strip malls rotted into absence, fields brittle from the June sun. This was the road where I once begged God to make me normal. This was the road where Mama whispered prayers instead of asking why I cried. I passed the trailer park where Troy showed me a switchblade and smiled like someone who knew how broken boys became men. The ghosts don’t scream now— they hum beneath my tires, singing a low song of what I survived.

Poetic Reflection: Samuel, Lying Awake in the Dark The window is open, and the stars fall in like seeds. You sleep beside me, your back a warm hillside my breath grazes, a place I know now with the soles of my soul. I was not raised to speak the names of men in my mouth like psalms. But your name tastes like soft bread and river water and the silence I’ve been aching for. They say a man is a stone and must not feel the fire. But your fire did not burn me. It made my blood sing. Tonight I held you like I hold a shovel in spring— with purpose, with weight, with the hunger to shape something that lasts from soil and sweat and need. You said nothing afterward, but I heard everything in the way you sighed— a thank you, a question, a door you dared to leave unlocked. I will not speak of love. Not yet. But this— this was not just skin and salt. This was a prayer in a language I never learned but understood. And when the morning comes, I will still be here, ready to speak it again with hands and hips and breath. If you'll let me.

April’s Last Light (A Seasonal Meditation in Verse) April ends not with a thunder, but with a breath drawn long— a hush between the lilac’s bloom and summer’s crowning song. The dogwoods whisper white goodbyes, their petals like soft rain. The orchard sighs in blushing pink, then greens itself again. Beneath the trees, the garden stirs as shoots break through the loam, small exiles from the dark below who’ve clawed their way toward home. The bees have not yet fully come— just scouts in looping flight, who flirt with dandelion gold before the fall of night. The frogs begin their evening psalms in puddles rimmed with mud, and lovers hide by willow trunks to trade the first small blood. The barn still smells of winter hay but open doors let in the scent of rain, the breath of fields, the musk of greening skin. Each fencepost casts a longer shadow, each boot sinks soft in sod. The moon, not full, but brave enough to rise where others nod. A boy walks barefoot through the rye— a girl with fire in hand burns last year’s stubble into ash to feed the waiting land. And oh, the geese—those vagrant prayers— still cry as if unsure that this is home, or something like it, neither wild nor pure. By river bend, the sycamores shed bark like second skin. The water runs with melting snow, and secrets deep within. The stars come late. The stars come soft. The stars arrive alone. And crickets try out summer’s tune in half-forgotten tone. Here ends the reign of April's light, a reign of lace and thaw. She bows to May’s more sumptuous kiss— half tremble and half law. And in the soil, still barely warm, the future starts to swell. It pulses under boot and branch— and does not need to tell.

Letter X What we Carry

Letter X – “What We Can Carry” Shared. Unsent. A letter between two men who loved each other in a thousand unnamed ways. From You: I’ve turned the word “love” over in my hands like a stone, smooth from years of use. It doesn’t mean what it used to. Not yearning. Not ache. Not a life I dreamed of and had to grieve. Now, it means this: I want you in my life—fully, honestly. Not in the shadows of memory, but in the light of real presence. Even if it’s messy. Even if it hurts sometimes. I’m not asking for more than you can give. I’m only asking for what’s real. If we’re going to carry each other, let it be with both hands open. Let it be with eyes wide and hearts humble. Let it be what it is—friendship, maybe something more ancient than friendship— without apology, without shrinking. But if that’s too much… Then tell me. I won’t hate you. But I’ll let go. Because I need truth more than I need almost. You’ve always been braver than me. Clearer. I read your words and I feel both loved and undone. I don’t want to lose you. That’s the clearest thing I know. And yet, I don’t know how to be everything I wish I could be. But here is what I can offer: I will show up. Not perfectly. Not on cue. But truly. I will call. I will visit. I will hold space for you that is not stolen from someone else’s time, but made sacred in its own right. You’re right—we can’t live on maybe. So let this be what we build: A friendship with history in its bones and grace in its future. A love that is not afraid of names it cannot fit. A bond that remains, even when we are tired, even when the world pulls at us from every side. I choose you. Not in the old way. Not in a way that asks you to wait. But in the way that says: You are mine, still— in memory, in presence, in whatever form we can hold with open hearts. Together: We do not know what shape this will take. Only that it is. And that it matters. And that we will tend to it like a small, flickering fire in a clearing— safe, at last, from the storm.