Poem 22, June 22
Ange Poem Two
Like the animals found
on the island of Madagascar,
where I evolved, and nowhere else,
& as hardy as the Flame Tree in its desert,
I thrive in the warmth of my close friend.
You are a Delonix regia,
its fernlike leaves and blooms
lovely to behold.
Steadfast as a flame tree among the trees of the forest,
the Baobab of the desert,
my poet is a rare tree, salt-tolerant , efficient at
taking words from the shallow porous sand
beneath my swamp.
I delight to read his poetry,
for the words sustain me like vary & laoka .
Let me lead his words to the page
where they will bloom,
fragrant with the scents of love.
Let his words be peaches,
fresh from the market,
& I will devour them until my belly is full.
Ever should his words
surround me; prop up my head;
& seek to make me forget my betrayal
by one whose memory I cannot erase from my past.
I tell myself his words may seek,
upon the line to arouse my soul,
when I cannot acknowledge them
with my body.
His words are cranberry
& vodka to my palate.
My stress lines
like fog from Lake Cumberland
in midmorning as I read his words.
In a hundred years
my words won’t matter.
The doves that coo to my mocking,
my breath blown through my thumbs,
will never be the doves I hear along Green River
of which I write.
Write a poem for me today, my poet.
Write us on the bank of Green River Lake
with my son.
Write the water warm—the day hot
& have us wade a while
before shadows return
& night surrounds us.