Poem 21, June 21
Ange, Poem One
I don’t let him kiss me on my lips— the painted—the natural,
Not even when cranberry and vodka bring happy words to my mouth,
is my thirst quenched,
my sister, whom I love like green persimmons,
He made you buy your house.
My husband says he probably got a kick back.
Says he wants to be your lover.
Were you like that with him?
We were never like that.
I see how happy he is when we drink wine.
I see how funny you are after you drink wine.
You delight in him.
And your point is what exactly?
He has no right to look into your eyes
and adore you.
Your eyes are dark,
lighter than your skin,
He does not stare at me
because his eyes are blue;
not because my skin is lighter than my African
cousins. He is a poet. He seeks words.
He stares at you because he is an artist.
He wants to paint you naked.
Say what you mean,
you whom I love;
you whose words I liken to brine water.
If not your words,
you may speak your husband’s words.
My husband is wise,
sister whom I love.
What does your wise husband say?
He says your bed
where you rest your head
is high off the floor and wide
and all he wants is in it.
My bed has no vermilion cliff.
It has no verdant moat.
I don’t know what that means,
my sister dear.
Go ask your wise husband,
my dear one.
He, who knows everything,
will understand it best.