this is for the sistas
who’ve stopp’d combin consciousness
long enough for their minds to lock
i’m a weaver of language, who knits you a tam
to catch your thoughts
---the silken extensions
hangin from your head
like palm leaves
this also, is for the sistas
who vary in hue & speckle the city
like black pepper, adobo, & accent
who holds the sun like tangerine wedges
in their mouths---rays spillin down the side
of their incandescent smiles
the sistas, who’s thighs fan out
under dress slacks or stretch jeans
who’s metronomic backsides
stir the air like cyclones
i’m comatose to the low drone of traffic,
the cacophonous motion of DC in the afternoon
---the steam’d meats & spices, waftin from vendor carts
scatter’d about the District
i’ve planted you poems,
grew you a tree of metaphors & similes;
analogies are fruits i feed you
like mangoes & sucrier figs
who’ve stopp’d combin consciousness
long enough for their minds to lock
i’m a weaver of language, who knits you a tam
to catch your thoughts
---the silken extensions
hangin from your head
like palm leaves
this also, is for the sistas
who vary in hue & speckle the city
like black pepper, adobo, & accent
who holds the sun like tangerine wedges
in their mouths---rays spillin down the side
of their incandescent smiles
the sistas, who’s thighs fan out
under dress slacks or stretch jeans
who’s metronomic backsides
stir the air like cyclones
i’m comatose to the low drone of traffic,
the cacophonous motion of DC in the afternoon
---the steam’d meats & spices, waftin from vendor carts
scatter’d about the District
i’ve planted you poems,
grew you a tree of metaphors & similes;
analogies are fruits i feed you
like mangoes & sucrier figs