30

 

i am very comfortable in my white tee. i sit long legged, unclenching my jaw, sipping tea.

the women were strongjawed, proud, south shore salt and bitter,

offering words of welcome and strategy and approaching the table already embittered.

strange in the fight how dear our strength, how thick our salt, how pleasant

it is to do battle some days, no words, approaching love full fisted, pleasantly.

flowers across the street stoop with rain, loose with pride, dark purple ring--

a bee approaches with no strategy, bends its knees in mid air as if to kiss a sunring.

when we died in those days there were no flowers, nothing flooded the streets

but us, one by one three hundred thousand goodbyes, swollen knees kissed streets.

smart in a black tie, a mask never bore with it so true a face

as these millennials entering, swollen, purple, indebted, even death about-facing

to complete a dream balancing act, born black. born back

to my childhood as i age out of it, sacred ink scratches my back

raw. incomplete always, but especially at the turning points.

adulthood is a dream act. place a sacred marking at this point

and remember, especially, the other raw moments of song--

connected with thrill and remarkable mundanity. this song

will continue. virtue lies in the body, in our body, its health,

well-being, good sleep, lack of attachment to mere ideas of love, unhealthy

platitudes, platonic heavens hiding earth. you cannot hide the body. here

where we sit, the breeze, not smelling so sweet of city, ruffles lightly the leaves, here

is a place i call home.

home is a place i call

here. health sings, points back

at faces in the street. a ring of pleasant but bitter tea

all that’s left of unhealthy longing. this black night

welcomed to a rose moon, full of selfless love, awaiting

nothing, blinking at the waypoints of so many children,

across the choppy waters you see

a ladder to yourself sitting in a white tea

and jeans, content, turning 30.