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?
