I’m fucked up fucked up.

 

AN IDEA OF IMPROVISATION 

JUST 48 HOURS AFTER YOU LEFT

(for Sarasvati Ananda Lewis)

Your last words still hover

in the air like dust motes.

The telephone has put on a bathrobe 

complaining my constant staring 

makes it feel naked,

and I find myself out on the street

interrogating rain showers as to your 

whereabouts.

This one particular raindrop

is very evasive, 

answering in metaphors—

I may have to wring 

some answers from these clouds.

Happiness stumbles along smelling

of mad dog and mumbo sauce,

wearing cheap sneakers with holes 

the size of a headache 

and a shirt that reads 

like a menu of stains.

I've begun hoarding my tears

as holy water, 

and all the vowels in my vocabulary

are now lookouts on the windowsill—

waiting to trumpet your return . . .

THURSDAY POEM

(For Sarasvati)

Say I'm laying across a leather couch

with Ariel, whose half-Mexican mouth

and chile green eyes track Jordan across

the court. It's maybe six days after you, 

and now my head sinks into the hollow

of her thigh. MJ wins the game with a jumper. 

We cheer, kill the TV and chill. In her 

mantle speakers, it's Round Midnight but she 

doesn't need my hands stroking her legs, 

and her fingers refuse to run thru my hair

as though put off by my need to be touched.

I don’t know how to ask to be held, so

I make up an excuse to bounce from her crib.

There's a long wait for the bus, so I walk, 

the air wipes its sweaty hands on my face

and just thirteen blocks from First St. NW,

I pass where Charlie's Seafood used to be

and recall that day I had two dollars,

but bought a slice of sweet potato pie 

for a dollar and a half, then came up 

to your apartment without calling first.

Your eye asked Who is it? through the peephole,

I yelled “A slice of your favorite pie.”

You cracked the door, eyed me like an errant 

child, your lips red as pistachio shells.

Don't ever do this again you said, then 

let me in. You make a communion

of apple cinnamon tea, say Let's play 

dominoes. We then flip a box over 

and plop on pillows, you shuffle all 

the bones and count out seven,

turning yours on their sides so I can't see.

I gathered my tiny tombstones of tile 

around me. After whupping me twice and 

talking trash, you laid on your back with your 

mouth blank beneath the black dots of your eyes. 

I aligned the dominoes of your spine, then

fed you sweet potato pie from a plastic fork 

which nearly melts as it touched your lips. 

I considered letting you have the whole crust, 

but you said Let's split it, like a wishbone. 

You scooted over, brushed crumbs from my shirt, 

as I leaned into the rhythm of your fingers 

finding a nook in my neck. Now, I’m at 

the corner of Seventh and Florida Aves., 

beginning to wonder if this red light will 

ever change? Your fingertips still tantalize

my ear, and perhaps I don’t just want 

their touch, perhaps I need it. Maybe not how

the letter Q needs to be followed by U, but

but how every small i needs the pupil that dots it.