Written on January 8, 2021
Summer day in Somerville Eating fresh pumpkin butter On When Pigs Fly bread The dough melds with that Cinnamon fall sweet pumpkin puree I look out my apartment window At the cars below me making their way through the city Nina Simone Ms. Nina Ms. Goddess of Soul and Jazz Croons on the radio Perched on the window sill Her voice drapes around me like a warm velvet curtain Enrapturing me Raw and viscous like organic Manuka honey Fresh from the comb Stirred in a pot with sugar To make a caramel syrup My potted plant, Nefertiti Sits on the windowsill She and the radio, Rachel, are best friends Ms. Nina cradles me in the velvet drapery Caressing my face with those ivory and ebony piano keys The sweet feeling of sweet music Ms. Nina reminds me I am never alone The sweetness in my mouth From the pumpkin butter on sourdough toast And the lullaby of resistance And the Black female experience In all its pain, power, pleasure The Black womanhood Which Ms. Nina lives and narrates Makes me feel like I'm in the life state Of heavenly bliss Ms. Nina is my crib, my hammock, She rocks me to sleep The soft chatter of the drums And the sensuous vocals from the saxophone Dances across my eyelids My cinnamon sugar eyelids Closed for maintenance Soaking in the sounds The sycamore leaves as they dance Alongside me in the arms of their branches These voices Slow waltz Glide On the linoleum floor of my eyelids The song ends My muscles limp as spaghetti Milky orange drool dripping from the crevice of my chapped bruised lips Caked with blood from biting them just a little too hard while asleep Legs a puddle of chocolate Melted in the 100 degree drought I am asleep.
Discover more from The Arts Are Life
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
The Arts Are Life 