Black

Through ghost-sheet eyes a crucifix burns in their
pupils and they chant hatred thick as a Southern drawl.
It’s 1968, and Martin Luther King has been shot.
James Earl Ray is a crowned a savior while rebel flags
wave goodbye to the voice of a generation.
Jump to the present, our arms are wrapped together and
tongues twist in the mouth’s cradle. In the dark we are
blind, nude, and I caress your body. Beneath ebon skin
tectonic plates shuffle around and the deep thunder
of your voice says, “You’re beautiful, sweet, and
loving.” And while I spread myself like a butterfly on
card, my fingers comb through your wool hair. In the
pale moonlight that gently illuminates the bedroom, your
sincere, brown eyes glow full of emotion, desire and passion.
The warmth between two souls forms a mutual force,
magnetizing me, it pulls me as close as mater will allow.
“Consume me,” I whisper. “Have all of me.”
The phantoms of my ancestors scoff, but one man’s
Hell is another man’s Heaven. And in paradise I am lost.
In this wicked world I hold him tightly and never want
to let go. Fingers locked together, our pallet of different
colors mix together. They become neutral.
This is the dream: The same one a gun blasted away,
but never killed. Equal water fountains, equal bus seats,
and equal hearts synchronized swimming in a sea of love.

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Published by

craneknewitt

I have currently been busy with life and I will be re-publishing older poems. New poems will come. I'm always under construction.

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