(for my slave ancestry)
Shroud don’t say anything if I changed my hair, if I spoke my thoughts, don’t
move an inch, a muscle. There’s a knot in your throat. It is just a moment in the falling light. Kissing the velvet of your shoulder. Stay, stay with me, hold me if you dare. Truth matters to me. Leave me another day. Love me another day. I know you still need to heal. The temptation to kiss you, to hold you is so strong, love. I think of the unbearable loneliness into the early hours of the morning. Stay with me, dark is the night, the shapes crying in the rain that go together. At the end of the day I am tired, the love is gone, the love is there. Everyone that I love, leaves me, and in return I leave them in the heat and the dust, the rust moth, India, the ex- waves lapping at the shore. You’re my life- line, and I’ll be forever writing love poems to reach you. If only R. could look at me that way again, instead of as if I came from
another planet from outer space. Men, the older male in particular expects sex, and women expect nothing but love in return. Sins are found in winter like books, the curator of a museum writing his report. Nobody calls Petrovna on the telephone. Asks her out on dates. Her ex is in love, a perfect love, and she gives him tenderness, and a romantic love, her lips softly chant sweet nothings when they make love, her physical body is just as enchanting, his high euphoric. All in love, but nobody loves me, all I keep finding is wild onions forever not yours. You are an angel R. You look angelic like a groom, still as handsome as life, as breath, as a wild Saturday. He sings, he trusts, he speaks French while I shy away for an autumn, while I’m forever not his, forever not yours.
And I’m battling to survive between anxiety, and fear of the unknown, the elite white bikini-pressures of summer, talking away. R.’s aura is a palace filled with longing, and belonging, graceful silence. Beneath it all I’m sad, underneath it all I feel shame. And the field is divided between what R. shall sew, and what he will reap. The music is so sad that it touches my soul. I’m battling mountains, hiking, climbing through the greenness of valleys. R.’s lover is velvet, like a Wednesday evening sweeter than any wine, swimming for survival
and I’m slipping away tonight. Dawn breaks, like touch, like a river, like the sleeping sea. Ovi+poetry Ovi_magazine Ovi |