To Love Somebody
There’s a light, a certain
kind of light that has never
shone on me—
Nina’s version.
Not the Bee Gees
or even Janis Joplin,
but the way Nina
sings it, almost a plea.
Not the studio
version either. No, her
performance in Antibes.
Her earrings
dangling their own mute
musics, her silk headwrap
an aureole of sorts.
The sheen of her face
a thesis in Black glamor
sui generis.
I want to be glamorous
in the way she was
glamorous. The way
women I knew growing
up were glamorous: campy,
yes, but regal.
If I knew of Nina then
I would have drawn
her. Drawing being
how I coped
with the expurgated chorus
of my childhood.
I drew women then
because I could not be
one. Nina knew
a life of could-nots
too. Little girl blue rejected
from music school.
Aye, I knew the blues; still do.
My godmother Pat whupped
my ass when she caught
a glimpse of me at her vanity
tracing my mouth with her
carmine matte lipstick
blues. I’m still afraid to touch
my face with shade #309 blues.
The same hue of blues
that would make someone want
to cry, I’m a woman. . .Can’t you see
what I am? I live & I breathe
for you! But Nina?
Oh Nina—
the way she sings it.
I imagine myself singing
at the vanity, assuring her:
Baby, you don’t know
what it’s like to love somebody,
to love somebody—I ain’t finished—
to love somebody,
oh, to love somebody,
to love somebody
the way that I love you.
by Jada Renée Allen
from Split This Rock