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 I leaped the ravine of No Return
to enter her as a sommelier
would a wine cellar,
til the bright crescents
of her fingernails
lit up the black sky of my back,
or these guitar strings bent
under cinnamon strums
rhumba enough to evict
the tenets of any religion?
Tonight, say a loose moonbeam
butterflies into the room
behind these ruby stung eyes,
mean a quill of light tries to inscribe
how nearly 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 could even survive
those tresses
curling darker
than the drumming
of what I thought  
she might save me from.
Recite the twin legends
of her razor swung legs,
but paint her blouse teal
as Sade's pleated lyrics
woven from shiver thin sheets.
Say doubt’s darkened cave of mouth
holds sparks of wildfire
to fell a forest entire,
then if all my 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 ignite 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,
danger’s final onyx angel,
didn’t snatch our head back,
hum “Forever” into an ear,
then skip our river rock quick
to spawn the sufi songs
of dragonflies that now seize
our pawns en passant.
But who else craved
an Old Crow moan
to throb their own throat,
or learned how vows
feel mouthed when 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 halo tilted
to kiss the curves
of Magdalene’s ear,
could even Jesus
deny the Gospel
of touch?
Beloved,
how many Luna moths
still flit into old flames
because we can’t stop
trying to unlock
such mysteries as magnetism
with keys found under
the tea rose carpet
of your tongue?
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