Sunday, January 11, 2009

first vein

under a gray-purple tarp
you fix on your Daddy's lawnmower
throw rice to the cocks
and curse around the damp heat
at mosquitoes

we touch again
in the north east this time
your sand and
tender smell of turquoise water
still hides in my dreads
your voice and
warm saliva
still tucks in my navel

through the rough callous of your hands
you give me a smuggled breadfruit

from my yard

you tell me my body
shapes like my hair
the tight coil delights you and
there are no seconds before
we are stripped
to an ache

then you tell me about cayman trees
ironwood
candlewood
pepper cinnamon
silver thatch
fiddlewood
broadleaf
smokewood
and how fried barracuda tastes in July

i can tell you nothing American
because it is everywhere--so
i tell you about the flawless beauty
of my daughter and the holy jinx
in my great-great grandmother's laughter

innocent your trees

before the moon strikes
our lips and backs and necks
you are already loving me again like
wind caught in sweet dusky soil

my voice lingers
it hangs right there
in front of your breath
dissonant and cacophonous
and yes
I hear you

our vein full of old rich African souls

3 comments:

ArtSparker said...

Wonderful writing. Okay to add you to my blog list (not just cause you said my blog was erudite)?

PeacefulWmn9 said...

An amazing poem full of imagery, sensuality, and truth.

Karen

Princess Haiku said...

Wow! Fabulous poetry. You are very talented.