Blueprint for Leaving a Black Man

I’m a new pair of eyes every time I am born. — Tina Turner
Ike hit Tina, and then she hit him solo. Debut:
the brink of a platform boot in the backseat
of a limo scene. Ms. Turner left that black man;
her name and Autumn weave split, You know you love him,
but can’t understand why he treats you like he do when he’s such a good man.
1984: Tina, can’t stand the rain … against her window
brings back sweet memories/ Oh, pain, don’t you remember?
The a cappella arabesque of a “Proud Mary,” so low
Buddhist rosaries confessed a Hail Mary of catcalls
caused by her fishnet’s duet with a denim mini?

Let’s skirt:

Ike called back. Sometime after midnight, he wanted
to re-rehearse stage positions again. He agreed

that he looked great right there next to Tina holding
his bass guitar & afro pick, then shouted, “You better be good to me!”

My husband, too, held a six-shooter to my head.
I negotiated what love’s got to do with staying,

our asleep children, nestled like toes
in peek-a-boo stilettos & that scratched

vinyl of night looped I’m a soul survivor
the night I became queen.