Bah Humbug!

AN IDEA OF IMPROVISATION

AS A HAUNTOLOGY WITH

A RECIPE FOR PERSIAN ROULETTE

(after Kaveh Akbar)

Why does life set tar along our path?

As a child nearly any thesaurus 

roared like a favorite dinosaur until

the beloved came before me to leave 

a cursive sitar next to certain furniture

on legs too short & dark for longing

how far must my sheep now wander

inside the silent ones a rose to set art 

circling round the sound of our father

like a tarot type of card in some casino

of the heart down to our bottom holler

I would grip the right arm of a slot machine

like the leftover parts of a long gone lover 

—if only I found the Farsi word for star

Elastic like Ekphrastic

a red wheelbarrow

how the rain water carries

the chicken’s white call

Happy Helen Folásadé Adu Day!

 Welp! Here we go again. 

AN IDEA OF IMPROVISATION 

AS MUCH ADU ABOUT NOTHING

“Didn’t I tell you what I believe,

didn’t I say that . . .”

Sade

Ifemi, you hummed 

“hang on to your love”

but, how many more

REM cycles 

before your winged eyeliner

angles to leap

the ravine of No Return

and open me

as a sommelier would 

a wine bottle?

How long until 

the white crescents

of your nails

re-light the black sky 

of my back?

Pray tell, who could foresee

the talisman

of your Pi tattoo?

Half icicle, half feather,

it feels like 

only this morning

your fingers found 

the curls at the base

of my neck.

Oh, freckled cheeks of Jesus,

I don’t know 

if even communion

 might spell 

or dispel 

the butterflies netted

by your amber irises.

Ifemi, what could be

the difference 

between a wound 

and what wound up 

happening?

Even still,

does Cupid not thrill 

some with arrows

and others with traps?

Has it not been claimed

—as a saxophone

signals sorrow—

that a fool for roses

may soon be a fool 

for rain? 

What drove me to seek

the heat of palms

lined with 

symbols derived 

from five types of feral,

yet cashmere as 

anything the neck

of a guitar

might fret to borrow?

If you come back, 

I won’t bring up

your wrist’s brassy passion 

for adinkra charms

& police bracelets

or why your contralto

seeks to crown

 my love 

as king.

Ifemi, perhaps

I’ve been reciting

 the right lyrics 

to the wrong songs

or the wrong lyrics

to the right songs

ever since that ponytail 

swung past 

a burst flame 

of bud 

to our last good buy.

Pray tell,

is it a rhyme 

if nothing stops 

me from being 

spotted like a Luna moth

in the halo 

of a porch light,

circling 

what’s tucked under 

the welcome mat

of yet another 

woman’s tongue?

December dawn