Happy Helen Folásadé Adu Day!

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

Beloved, I believe

it was earlier this month

your fingers—

half flame, half jasmine—

found every curl

on the back of my neck

as if touch were teach

and your voice

was incense drifting 

across a temple.

But all moons wane

and whose fingertips trace

 your lunar phases

tattoo today?

And not wane

as in failure

but a bluer fugue

in the key of  F—

your fingers erased

as they composed, 

but one

I cannot hum

with atheist breath.

The Sufis claim

what I seek

is seeking me.

It isn’t true

I seek your touch

under the weight of blankets

or in silk socks

and fur-lined gloves

—but the sonics soothe.

Helen, as hummingbirds

hover over petals

for nectar—

I mishear

the Phrygian psalm 

of wings

and not even

almond blossoms

stop me from starving

into a Luna moth

under the halo

of your porch light.

I don’t believe

“a love like hours won’t last”

even as the tight

of your ponytail

was braided between 

our first slow dance 

and our last adieu,

but must my splinters

settle on 

the orange charcoal

of your voice?

I miss nothing

except 

your fingers & lips

leaving 

crescent lessons

on the taper

of my neck

—shapes my nerves

cannot unknow.

Every night I kneel

your voice circles me

—a raptor’s shadow—

yet if I open my mouth

my teeth pop out

and shatter into shards 

which hatch into tiny vipers

I try to scream

but my tongue forks out

into white satin petals 

which fill my mouth.

Oh, freckled cheeks 

of baby Jesus,

I now grasp

why Shakespeare said

 “Cupid kills

some with arrows,

some with traps.”

If I find the inside

of your arms again, 

I will bind myself

in their silent circles

—your wrist’s brassy need 

for velvet-lined 

police bracelets

and obsidian

prayer beads.

Is it a phrase in F flat

or a bass line 

curling into cursive

that all faith only blooms 

into fugues in the rain? 

True religion

requires nothing

except belief

—but tonight 

I tune my guitar 

only to the notes   

of wild jasmine

waning

in these blankets

and sheets.