In bed you sought signs of a massacre in my hands
The morning begins with your
tired fingers finding the sun under the tiles,
Some meals we call tender activism,
sauvignon in paper cups
Speaking thick Swahili your mouth a trampoline.
A shipwreck in my blood yearning to be found
Treasure perfect for your dress.
Floating on your skin
All the words a palate can hold.
We tremble at night, new leaves bud from the sides where limbs were cut off, this new light emblazons our new skin-hides, your face is a lamina complete with a network of tears, holes in your palms for the times we sacrifice love for poems. Your make-up hues of adobe walls, I kiss the hem of your dress and leave you a virgin.
Where the brewing coffee can reach your lips
Each raindrop is a word you learn to remember
with the levees of your sandals
As an act of love
You blow up the carcass of an umbrella
And I am glad to offer you a disguise.
In the delicatessen
Your palms and eyes
The shelves of marble sweets
My blood under your nails
where you throw love to me
three times a day.