ANTOINETTE TIDJANI ALOU
You will tremble and hide your face
belatedly, forgetting your last skin
already shed, as if you could afford such a lack of guile.
Finally, you will see how
succulence is costly, my Chiquita,
when you are dished out, a poor man’s pudding,
innocent of batter, of cream, of a platter.
Then, at four past the eleventh hour
you will trust anything
save the yawning darkness
of a rude throat.
But nothing will delay the throttle
the tepid decline down
that inglorious slope
Yes, first, you will cry.
You are ripe now
I believe
press you with three fingers
Whiff the swill of the revolution
gnawing at the edges of the pages
hugging a thick volume to her breast
Walcott set in ink, fondly pressed
(or Neruda, Guillén, Ferlinghetti…)
witness that our words outlive us
In the undertow and the sewage
the sweet sweat of love
and the water flowing
from the sun-bright belly of the pumpkin
or the green belly of the jelly coconut
Water and salt
breaking forth
from the habitual wombs
of sequential mothers
surge, first fruits of the revolution!
Too soon you forgot
your arm, your words
small axe raised to mid air
Especially, you cower
one last minute shy of brave release
You
Play it safe for one more comfortable breath
in a small familiar room at noon
While below decks the deep red heart is ripe to bursting
Soon-soon soon-soon soon-soon soon-come…
But when?
Ripeness is all.
