30.7.07

february in harlem

1.
Every finger crisping,
crackling in the frost’s bite,
unhanding bricks and uncradling chain links
as the sun sidles behind the tenement.

The ivy loosens her grip
but only just enough
so the underbellies of each vein
can take a deep breath.

2.
tit tit tit tit tit tit

Little finch or sparrowbaby
hipping down the sidewalk,
gliding every hop or so
on the iced lemon cake.
Each time the basketball pounds
the cracked concrete,
the finchbaby tits.

3.
He sucked my second finger
mhmm mm mm
like he could make milk
come out under my nail.

I know yo maaaaayn
don’t work his tongue like this!

mhmm mm hm
I thought of the three bears.

The taste of my fingerprint
like curry or bay leaves.
His breath like tea steam
as I rocked in my seat.

How hot my nutmeg porridge
the morning he came knocking—
he knew the porridge was steam.
Did he know the oats were stale?

hm hm hm hm
Did he know them oats were stale?
Only one bowl in that pot
and not for him neither.

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