Minnesota

We spent four nights at St Thomas

in a cold, magnolia dormitory‒

an unlikely place for a honeymoon

but we decided not to tell them.

We revelled in the hope of sin‒

you hammering away at my cornerstone

in a hallowed room.

On our first night, we squabbled.

I thought you a handsome fossil

and picked at old habits that clung to you.

That night, nose to nose with the wall,

I wondered about my wedding band,

your sweet and smoky breath,

the tick-tocking of your hand.

The second day, we bought rollerblades

and sped down narrow lanes

of the campus lake.

How we laughed at each other!

Or rather, laughed at me

Those jeans you said

coaxed my curves

now cut and ripped at the knees.

The third night, I wept.

It was the way you looked at me at dinner

when I spooned butterscotch sauce

into my dessert bowl.

Like I was a fraud‒

a sizzling rump of fat in a pan,

as if all my loveliness was nothing

 a flash in the pan.

On the fourth day, you took me

to the Mall of America. Bought me

a crystal candlestick for my collection,

Then, you conned me onto the roller-coaster.

There was a shrill thrill to your voice

as we rode like wind-spurned kites.

I thought of growing old with you

and how much I hated heights.

Out of Tune
We were scatting along fine

until we stalled mid-session.

Now our Jazz is hollow

like the belly of an old drum.

Your fingers have turned to air-headed strings
and my lips close round untested reeds.

Noise fills the bedroom
but the darkness is comforting.

I bind my waist with a staff;

you beat the covers.

We compose for the children at dinner

but our lyrics don’t rhyme.

We hum in different keys,

improvise.

Then, later, on the sofa, we talk biology:

how what the  belly keeps
will burst from the mouth.

Politics: how what creeps into the north

will ravage the south
and the hopeless state of our union.

Next Time

The next time my roots find this earth,

I will not be cut down, knocked up,

nailed to the cold concrete

or sat on.

Instead, I will bud slowly,

lick the mist of every morning

and spread my branches

in a slow dawn yawn.

It will be you, I say.

I will offer greenness,

let you trickle through the bark

and tickle the softness beneath.

And when I am soaked and stained

to my depths with your dew,

I will steam up the soil

and return to the skies.

Next time, it will be with you.

Come Away

Let us steal away to an island

on the left side of Cuba.

There’s a beach there, you say,

where blind seagulls circle

the sea at sunrise until fish leap

into their open mouths

There are no pebbles on the sand, you say,

just old bones that rub against each other.

Bones robbed of flesh,

bones robbed of blood.

And in the distance, in the shadow

of ships that turn away,

there’s a small lighthouse

that warms the wind with its glare.

That is where we shall sleep, you say.

We shall sleep and sleep right there. 

Distance

And do you think that love itself,
Living in such an ugly house,
Can prosper long? ­‒ Edna St Vincent Millay

The ring of red wine on the coaster dries,

I see my lips have left their mark on your glass.

It happened when I tasted you in the Merlot.

I wanted a mouthful of your fruity tones,

wanted your blood to break my bread.

I do the rituals:

fret about saltiness in the stew

then the blandness of it;

flatter guests like the faithful wife.

but the man with the ring

on his finger does not look at me.

He knows I am half of another whole.

Across the table,

you graze the lip-print.

Your fingertips touch every grove

circle the length of my smile,

from the centre.

I despise the teapot that sits stout

between us. You offer it

to your woman friend

who warms her palms

on the arch of its back.

She knows too.

The moon dissolves light.

The wine sours in my mouth

so I find another room.

Soon, the ring will call my name

and I will answer just the same.

Then you will kiss me by the door,

leave me clutching my cheek

and wanting more.

The Church in Eiya

There is a church in Eyia

where there’s no Jesus

to burn a hole

through your heart,

or your pocket.

No Jesus to stare you up the aisle,

tut-tut, shake it’s head

when no one is looking.

No one,

but you.

No portrait of pain on the wall,

no weakling meekly pleading,

eyes rolled up

to the bird thrashing about

on the ceiling.

There is no Jesus there

to remind you what a piece of shit you are

for unbuttoning your blouse

or unfastening your zip.

This Jesus knows you’re human!

In this church in Eyia

‒the one without Jesus‒

there are clean, white walls

and on the immaculate walls,

there are mirrors

Nothing fancy,

just mirrors.

Mirrors.

Mirrors.

Mirrors.

And you quit singing

and dancing with your reflection,

you pray.

You sit quietly and stare at yourself

and stare at yourself

and stare at yourself.

Opium

My people have gone mad.

They have gone mad

for Christ.

They take Him everywhere.

Hang Him around their necks

like a hangman’s noose.

He died for us, they say

But really it they who have died

for him.

They put him in everything,

chew him like gum,

roll him in their mouths like phlegm

and spit him out

to kiss the spouse.

They see him in everything:

in the skies‒‒ red, black or blue,

when the day is sunny at noon

in the dead child’s face

and his mother’s hullabaloo.  

This Christ, who was pined up by the Pharisees,

clutched underarm by the missionaries,

flogged in Bomba for chicken fees.