Friday, December 01, 2017

No Ordinary Love

“Didn’t I tell you what I believe . . .”
Helen Folasade Adu

How many earth circles spun round the sun
since you spurned the ravine of No Return
to enter her as a sommelier
would a wine cellar,
where the white crescents
of your fingernails
bit into the black sky of her back
or your guitar strings were strummed
by cinnamon thumbs
rhumba enough to evict
the tenets of any religion.
Tonight, say a loose moonbeam
butterflies into the room
behind your ruby stung eyes,
mean a quill of light tries to inscribe how
nearly calligraphic kisses could spell
or dispel lunar letters of despair.
Learnèd astronomer
under which bright constellation
might these drums cease
to summon those Calypso lips
glossed to lapse all logic,
if logic could even survive
these tresses trembling
above tattoos which twist
symbol into crosshatched myth.
Recite the twin legends
of her razor swung legs,
but taint her blouse teal
as Sade's pleated lyrics
woven from shiver thin sheets.
Say doubt’s holy cave of mouth
held sparks of wildfire
to fell a forest entire,
then if all your nights
were spent like coins
glazed in the glare
of prayer’s fountain,
who cares?
Some wonder if we’re freed
or fried by the lightning inside
a theorem of thighs
that incite five types of feral,
this time as the thin edge
of teeth on a low hung ear lobe’s
suspect rim,
that time as an ankle’s
brassy passion for police bracelets.
Let’s pretend
this daughter of danger,
dawn’s onyx angel
never skipped across your river
rock quick,
never pulled your head back
to whisper into an ear,
nor spawned the sufi songs
of dragonflies
before seizing your pawns en passant.
But who else craves
an Old Crow moan
to throb their own hatchling throat?
Some vows feel mouthed
yet sizzle unsung
in the cast iron marriage
of sly catfish & cool cornmeal,
between a first flame of bud
& our last good buy.
If his vibranium halo
tilted to kiss curves
in Magdalene’s ear,
could even Jesus
have stayed virgin ?
But still,
how many Luna moths
need flit into old flames
before we stop
trying to unlock
a mystery like magnetism
with keys kept under
the tea rose carpet
of a lover’s tongue?
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