+ For Baraka

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PS. Thought you might appreciate this resurfaced photo from 10 years ago. That was me at 14! Kid you not. Thanks for passing on, Meghan! Lookit how little my face is!


And now...

A poem in response to the gorgeous one that lives below. Read that one first. First draft, of course.

For Baraka

the days run into each other
like moving pictures
an arm becomes a pinwheel becomes
animal, swinging from vine
in a jungle, no, Baobab tree,
perhaps its the wine but there is a
swarm of monstrous bees
exiting the hive we once called your mouth
no, its your tongue
sliding across white snow
a cheek, a belly, soft pads of each finger
just so

I am not sure your name is really your name
I am not sure I care to know the truth of things
just tell me a story
fantastical
about two penguins in love
that bear our fake-names like crowns
tell me the secret you keep under socks
who is the girl in your ribcage?
she is broken, too
we are all a little broken
we admit to this
but look how our hearts grow watermelon seeds
and reproduce like rabbits
look at all the thumping drumming
from our flesh, the skin taut and stretched
would you look at the way we dance?

What is a pint of blood for the offering
the sky is calling and we musn't refuse
what are your wings made of?
pheasant or peacock or dove
you crack wide open a grin
say, simple pigeon and
I understand your magic all at once
like a rush to the mouth
like a dive

Meet me at the top of a bell tower
with your notebook
or a dark cave lit by cigarette
you will fumble to catch my lips
the night's on fire
as the camera rolls behind an old bowling alley
I'll be in a dress from Africa, wearing sin
like rock and roll, I find you underneath
my fingernails
this dirt, boy, you've been wearing the same
shirt for days but smell like summer under your sweater
the rain never comes here
but your song sounds like home

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