Sorry for the Broken Mirror

With something lit there in my threshold,

(LIGHT)

In the hands of the Man-

In the doorway.

This erratic block of business-

I implore you to file by the brick, mortar, and stone.

Brought about by the beat Afro-SUN.

Sweet SON,

Dear prophetic construction in the bowels of my womb-

REMAIN THERE-

In some passage,

Wholly inaccessible to Man,

and the fruited brim of His gracious wine.

Let me teach you-

Guide that sight-worthy palm,

From skin- HEAT

(SWEAT)

For- brought by the breeze,

The final motion-

Called upon by the humble weight of THAT hand,

THIS mallet-

and tender aggression.

And, if by the window you are using in the barren light,

clouded by His punctuation-

From lips,

Brought to the lips- milky digestion.

(INTENTION)

Sweet SON,

Bright deified daylight-

“BE CAREFUL”

As these eyes mock the paid preacher who prayed for MY deceased SUN.

In malicious irony,

From the bed where you lay-

“BE CAREFUL”

By that doorway,

begot a Man.

A nimble soapbox,

To preach a new science-

A base methodology by which you examine my wonton breast.

He-

     Merely takes, by the negated game of give and-

From the depths of my breached movement,

I do not ask, of you SON-

Simply because this is not about being Woman,

And you- My delicate man on the edge,

Being this desolate body of some charming, curdled body of WAR.