Native Love


When the 
eastern sun 
glazes the 
leafy boughs 
with golden rays,
you remain 
in the tent of 
my brown 
body — 
wrapped around 
my shoulders 
like true love.





Write Me a Song


Cast your spell 
around my youth,
and like a muse's poem
let it rhyme with my 
heartbeat — 
as your lips
open and close — 
pouring out words
like a pregnant
tongue.





Too Late


I have gone to the wind;
only a blind ear can 
reveal my timid prayers.

I am like a drunkard's drum — 
a paw-paw stemmed flute 
whose tongue flirts with
the tragedies of my borrowed past.

Ah, I have lost my days
in tomorrow's dream.
How can I overcome the future?





Talking Drums


They have gathered underneath
eve's romantic light — 
with braided wrappers
buckled around their waists and
tattoo talking drums…

They wait to dance to the
brool of coerced timbers
as tiny beads of sweat tickle from
the armpits of languorous farmers.

Ah, the dancers have twisted their
feet to a new rhythm; 
and we, like a newly wedded couple,
gaze at this miracle.