Friday, December 01, 2017

No Ordinary Love





NO ORDINARY LOVE
“Didn’t I tell you what I believe . . .”
Helen Folasade Adu


How many moon cycles has our earth spun
since you leaped the ravine of No Return
to search for her as a sommelier
would a wine cellar,
til the white crescents
of her fingernails
lit up the black sky of your back,
then your guitar strings missed flicks
of cinnamon strums
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 describe how
recalled calligraphic kisses can spell
or dispel lunar letters of despair.
Learnèd astronomer
under which bright constellation
might dreams cease
to summon those Calypso lips
glossed to lapse all logic,
if logic might even survive
those tresses curling
above cubist tattoos
trembling symbols into
crosshatched myth.
Recite the twin legends
of her razor swung legs,
then taint her blouse teal
as Sade's pleated lyrics
woven from shiver thin sheets.
Claim doubt’s darkened cave of mouth
holds sparks of wildfire
to fell a forest entire,
then if all your nights
are 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 dawn’s first daughter,
last of danger’s onyx angels,
didn’t snatch your head back,
hum “Forever” into an ear,
then skip your river rock quick
spawning the sufi songs
of dragonflies that now seize
your pawns en passant.
But who else craved
an Old Crow moan
to throb their own throat,
or learned how vows
feel mouthed as they sizzle unsung
in the cast iron marriage
of sly catfish & cool cornmeal,
between a first flame of bud
& that last good buy.
If his vibranium halo
tilts to kiss the curves
of Magdalene’s ear,
could even your Jesus
remain virgin ?
Beloved, how many
Luna moths need flit
into old flames
because we can’t stop
trying to unlock
mysteries like magnetism
with keys tucked under
the tea rose carpet
of your tongue?
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