With hands clasped around his gut, my father and I cruised down the wobbly lanes of Pouyatt and Crooks Street where the zinc fences that made homes glistened in the eventide light and old women sitting outside on multicolored buckets smiled at us in between thick, hearty laughter.
Read MoreOn nights, the moon is much too lovely
to ignore and my room becomes a
cocoon that stuffs and suffocates,
I take a walk.
I’m looking for the lady whose skin
turns blue in the moonlight.
After two croaks, I see her
in all her antediluvian glory.
Suede Clarks, Anita Baker crooning
from the record player,
a devoted night routine to the moon.
She has me transfixed in space,
time and retrograde.
My whole body is humming
whatever tune that’s so wonderfully
placed around her lips.
Oh, how I envy that song.
I, too, long to be a thing in her mouth.
