Twisted with wax and worn fingers like a woven rug
At the tops are swirled stories of
family and sweet first love.
Gathering the untamed tufts of curly black hair,
my pinched fingers force them to tow the line of the ancient row.
At the root I swirl his natural oils with the gunk of once roaring bees
Aromas from Jamaica and Egypt and blankets from his grandma’s bed
waft and tickle the prickly hair in my nose.
Now, more than ever, I wish to breathe him in.
A wafting of lonely sadness sink and settle in past my fingertips
Why stop at the root?
Why stop at the tip?
Please, let me place my ivory hands on your playdo skin- to peek beyond
your broad nose and your honey-speech
I care not if you utter the nemaz or Isa’s prayer
My pinched fingers just want to bring the schismed parts to unity with life beats.
The wild and untamed tufts of your spirit and the isolated fray are searching for-
not peace or passion or purity- but a roaring resurrection
Resting not in my hands, but in another’s.