I watch a scorpion feed on dusty moths
trapped in a ceiling light… before I douse the sight;
before I pillow down…I follow capture as arachnid
silhouette flips ‘round a shallow globe
I dream scorpions tango in my mind
there in the moonlight of dim consciousness where
he…she…they… tangle claw to claw to sway push;
they ripple mouthings…leg wrap twist and drag
to swing spin…tilt rock…glide swirl to silent rhythm
of relentless no enchantment loveless mating
through a night dark…restless…through intimations
of an ego sting implied there in the edges of my sleep
I awake to fading constellations….somewhere Scorpio
slips and drips though space…its constellation silhouette
implying shape to nothingness
some ancient entomologist drew it on the universe…
some inventive charter for celestial navigation
I shall erase the sky
I shall take my chances against now
I shall embrace my history in the moment
I shall tango with my love
love is shade movable as shadow;
it is scintillant brightness;
it cannot be defined as if it were
a color described to someone blind
as orange…azure…emerald… a
dainty pink…a blood deep red
its thinking etches or erases like
lace edged sea foam on a beach
it is invisible as gravity…sensed
like space between tick…tock
no spell is implicit in its sounding
for its spelling is not sacrosanct…
it may as well be evol…olev…velo
enough…for we think of it as warm
or chill or thrill or pain or ecstasy…as
literal as pinch…sustaining as if breath
she told me…
she…being my Mother…one day at Church…
never to place a book upon a Holy Bible
and her caveat stays me…to this day,
though not like The Ten Commandments
that I should not break…for the No Book
on Top caution was Her bent, not mine
he told me…
he…being a law student Prince from Africa
that his Father…the Kisi tribal King…told him
his oath on a bible in a British court was illegal
for it’s someone else’s foreign sacred thought
yet…a Human Blood Oath…now That to him
was Holy…not indifferent like a beer oath, or
one sworn with chicken blood, depending
as they did, upon individual intent
on occasion when I shelve my Books
aged faintly aromatic vanilla almond hay,
the ones I cherish near me place to place…
their sweet fragrance on occasion keys my
Saturday remembrance of Mother…me…on
Communion Service duty in a damp Church
basement breaking shortbread wafers onto
silver plated trays…and pouring grape juice
into tiny plastic cups
He…rotates hours in tractor green
rust red…bruise purple…cow black,
and slogs mud brown to harvest gold;
he stretches days to months of acre
farmland distance smudged to dusty
lilac edged pale orange to sunset.
She…stacks rainbow cotton into strata
on her closet shelves… pink yellow rose
denim blue…and she turns flower print
calico to fat quarters for quilts’ necessity;
she cuts pale pastel lengths for day clothes,
crisp white curtains for their bedroom,
layette laces, a black mourning shift.
They…jar garden colors…inter them dated
deep to cellar racks…their summer bounty
of intense prairie heat…tomato bean beet
corn plum dimmed…cooled in basement
gloom until kitchen resurrected to the
palette of their plates…for lives lived
cumulus against a cloud fog mist canvas
of blue white graying years.
Proem... 
You must be logged in to post a comment.