Is your love HyperQBic?
Does it have colorpuntal pearls like a ghost poem?
Here we go again.
I’m not thirsty, you’re thirsty
AN IDEA OF IMPROVISATION
AS MUCH ADU ABOUT NOTHING
“Didn’t I tell you what I believe,
did somebody say that . . .”
Sade
Ifemi, it seems
only this morning
that you whispered
I pressed
you into liquid
like a bowl
of virgin olives
while your fingers—
half flame, half feather—
counted every curl
on the back of my neck.
But who traces
your dream catcher
tattoo now?
Ifemi, how many
more sun & moon
cycles must I
hold my breath
until your vixen lipstick
recrosses the ravine
of No Return
to sip me once more
like a sommelier
& your rebel red nails
re-press their crescents
into the midnight sky
of my back?
Ifemi, hummingbirds
hover over petals
for the possibility
of nectar—
is it a rhyme
if not even
the nutty undertone
of almond blossoms
can stop a man
from being spotted
like a Luna moth
by the halo
of your porch light?
Oh, freckled cheeks of Jesus,
I may now grasp
why Shakespeare claimed
Cupid kills
some with arrows,
some with traps,
because who knows
which angle of light
veils or unveils
what’s buried
in the amber
of your irises?
Ifemi, if I dissolve
into the blue flame
of your breath,
will I subsist
as breath,
or simply burn?
Is it really written
—as a saxophone
curls into cursive—
that a fool for roses
is always
a fool for rain?
I don’t believe
you wrote
“a love like hours won’t last”
before your ponytail
braided with ache
swung past
that first flame of bud
to our last good buy.
Ifemi, should
our eyes meet again,
I promise not
to underestimate
your wrist’s brassy passion
for prayer beads
& police bracelets.
Oh Ifemi, how long
until the traces
of sandalwood & citrus
in your hair
begin to settle
what every held breath
seems to be trying
to say about absence
as a way of staying?
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