Christal Ann Rice Cooper on April 13, 2019

Christal Ann Rice Cooper on April 13, 2019
"I worship Jesus - not a celebrity, political person, political party, philosophy, or spiritual leader -Only Jesus Christ." Christal Ann Rice Cooper Speaks!

Tuesday, February 2, 2016

Photographic Poem - On February 2, 1985 Nicole Brown Married OJ Simpson

Christal Cooper

*Poem given copyright privilege by C.A. Cooper 

Nicole’s Blood-Splattered Ballad

You met him at Daisy’s  
that June afternoon,
experienced an attraction stronger
than the positive and negative of an atom.

After a week long flirtation
he took you out to Stellini’s
in his vintage black Rolls Silver Cloud,
ripped your tight stretch jeans to have fast sex.

Now OJ’s kept woman in a small Westwood apartment,
a bigger apartment in Beverly Hills,
house in the deep canyon,
San Francisco condominium.

Parents thought the black Porsche 914
was your 19th birthday gift.
They didn’t see the black eye
behind that cover girl makeup
that he was trying to make up for.

His divorce final,
you move to Rockingham
and with your touch it is natural sunlight, warmth,
flowers in vases, fruit in bowls.

Mama laughed when he threw
the photographs lining the stairwell
Again!  Again!  Again!
You put them back up. 
Again.  Again.  Again.

You hid things so well
you could not find the Uzi
he got for Christmas.

“O.J. said he would kill me if I left him.”

You dialed 911, light and sirens
your greatest defense
soon replaced by his apologies.

“When are we getting married?
When will you quit screwing around?
When will you stop beating me?”

This time the bitch had a name
you lamented to him.  He pushed you
into the wine cellar

where he beat you, locked you in,
watched television,
and beat you again. 

You no longer sexy Nicole, nor
O.J. Simpson’s mistress
but a little girl afraid of the dark,
wanting to go home

until he apologizes, and you accept.
“I’m pregnant.” 
He says, “Already have two”
and demands an abortion.

You leave, only to have him come
the next morning, promising
the biggest diamond ring.

Then he pushes you out of a moving car.
You accept another apology,
hoping marriage will change him.

You wear the quadruple-tiered,
white embroidered lace dress
with a straight skirt, long sleeves,
mesh see-through portions
around your breasts.

Short hair adorned
with seed pearl ornament,
a necklace of diamonds:
O.J.’s gift to you.

The intimate small party lasted 12 hours,
dancing to Motown hits,
breaks to reapply makeup.

Baby Sydney already in you,
trying to feel beautiful while pregnant:
“Look at your arms.  Look at your legs
You look like a pig.”

Until your piece of heaven was born
only then did he call you Nick and Sweets
especially when on the Louis XV bed.

Pregnant with Justin,
only to demand you have an abortion
“Fat ass!”

Another mistress.  Make up with rough sex.
You refuse to take him in your mouth.
He punched you in the forehead, slapped
You seven times seventy times

$500,000 alimony, $10,000 a month child support,
Another 911 call, he knows your greatest fear,
to be stabbed.

His threat of reporting you to the I.R.S.
Left you with no more straws to suck out of.
You make plans to move to Malibu

Sydney performing at her dance recital,
holding your gift of yellow roses,
While telling him “NO!” to the
family dinner at Mezzaluna’s

your knife kissed your fork,
and you ate spinach and cheese rigatoni,
drank Italian muddy-red chianti.

In between bites
you whispered into Mama’s ear
“He’ll always be my soul-mate.”

You kissed Mama, Papa, and sisters.

You walked with kids to Ben and Jerry’s
for chocolate chip cookie
dough ice cream.

Read Sydney, Justine a bedtime story
tucked them into bed,
kissing their faces.

Lit candles in your bathroom
for a long soak in the tub
but the bath would have to wait. . .

so you could wait for Ronald to
return Mama’s gold-rimmed
eyeglasses, sealed in a white envelope  . . . . 

. . . . . . . Your white Akita’s high-pitched barks
coagulated in the dripping heat
wandered in the foggy dark,
his bloody paw prints marking
upscale Bundy Street.

Placed in a coffin,
wearing a long-sleeved,  black dress
to hide your “grand canyon” neck.

Hair loose to your slashed chest
now just a crater
hidden inside your black dress
buried in the ground.

1 comment:

  1. This poem vividly illustrates what happened to this poor woman. It is a shame OJ treated Nicole Brown Simpson so badly. May her unjust murder and death be avenged in the next life. May she rest in peace.