Poem 21, June 21  

Ange, Poem One

She
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,
I thirst.

Sister
He made you buy your house.
My husband says he probably got a kick back.
Says he wants to be your lover.  

She
Were you like that with him?  

Sister
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.  

She
And your point is what exactly?  

Sister
He has no right to look into your eyes
and adore you.
Your eyes are dark,
lighter than your skin,
Madagascar sister.  

She
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.  

Sister
He stares at you because he is an artist.
He wants to paint you naked.  

She
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.    

Sister
My husband is wise,
sister whom I love.  

She
What does your wise husband say?  

Sister
He says your bed
where you rest your head
is high off the floor and wide
and all he wants is in it.  

She            
My bed has no vermilion cliff.
It has no verdant moat.  

Sister
I don’t know what that means,
my sister dear.  

She
Go ask your wise husband,
my dear one.
He, who knows everything,
will understand it best.