Amandla County Folksong
- for Crys.
by a beautiful birthright
i was born the peasant-boy for this pixel era - the 300
pound pauper onscreen at 72 dpi; the daydreamer behind
the Poro mask. i’ve always lean’d into book-learning,
it reinforces what stargazing has reveal’d: that above all,
to not revel in you should be avoid’d. i watch you as you
wii / my dark eyes peering at you between pages, line
counts, stanza breaks. your black skin pierces the night
like the Eye Of God, his insights ignited and me with
a perspiration of pot-liquor & blues, thick & combustible.
this desire-daub sizzles, drop’d into sly-look’s molten oil.
i see you in all your glory, there is Genesis in your dance
steps. by what Igbo spell does the dry air between us resist
retardants, awaiting the aflamation of kiss / the necessary
ablution of spit against skin / the abscission of tongue
against tongue? in the belly of my head i hunger you. at
your touch a willing skin hisses steam. we two are drench’d
instantaneously; my poems are a song for the Auset in you
with Shango’s palms entangl’d in the thickets at her nape,
plying between shoulder blades, collarbones & thighs. but
i am but a pauper and you are pokeweeds & the perfection
of onyx. Bennu rebuilds his nest within my breath for you.
the synthetic sugar i use in coffee helps me to stir up
the myth, my black poems sandwich’d between the diabetic
breads of my aesthetic: i lay my plates before you / on your
lap, at your feet. i only want to un-famish you and ‘tho i am
half a loaf of a man i am made of no loose chaff, this recipe-me
is sacred & golden & carnal, in this vein i am cosmic. and from
my open paws i give you this crust, the crevices & the crests;
my all & all. i crumble solstice where you are somber, solemn,
in need of solace - by right of a beautiful birth, i beg you,
QueenMother, to eat of me.