Arts & Culture Poetry

#ArtisticFridays My Heart Offers A foetus

My heart offers a foetus

As a cub to be cradled at the old rock.

The sun gave suck

Until we stripped the milk in our teeth

And made post-natal for meat and flesh.

We were lions back then:

Children mischievously wrestling in a desert sand-box

Until dusk broke its back for us

And we would run,

Cutting the evening air, our shadows lagging not far behind

Like a game of tag.

Under a pale moon that slink like an abandoned tyre swing

In an overused playground that still remembers vaguely the laughter of children:

I too know the sound of absence.

It tastes like old age.

I could watch you gaze at the inner-city from my apartment window any day

Like a tourist that twists its neck,

Admiring the industry of an old Arab market place in East Jerusalem.

Amazed at everything and yet afraid to touch -but –

We were young enough to know that mud puddles were made for boot-prints

And with the right amount of pressure in melee

The belly of a jukebox could cough up all the silver pieces it guzzled in greed.

Some nights the horizon peels its skin like pitch-navy denim jeans.

My ribs a jungle gym where children used to dart and tussle

God-wards my marble heart where you have made skipping stones of my organs.

You pump years into my lungs when we kiss

Whence I cringe like a red balloon at the pin-prick of your scarlet lips.

You spoke like a jewel was lodged in your throat and my tongue a spade

known to salvage what broken artifacts are caught in the rough.

I told you was in love,

And asked if you felt the same.

This time with my eyes and you made for the cramped loft window.

The fan whirling atop a pile of books

and whispered

“what if that’s not enough?”

After midnight, the hands on the clock unclasped like legs split on my bed.

We struggled to make love until we gave up

I wonder, with my back against yours

How do we stumble upon death it wasn’t there before and yet it sits close as a

Near widowed wife at the side of her husband’s sick bed.

The oil in her tear ducts as black as a funeral.