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.
