The words I had to say
had washed up at the bottom
of a tin can of cancer -
it's hollow ring sounding
church bells in my head,
while my lover licked
the coffee, henna and chocolates
from the bridge of my palate.
Here was the steady realization
that the conversation had not
run dry with the drink.
With new faith I had long fashioned
the fancy of our fruits, where
he would dig a spade into the heart
of my soul, reaping harvests of colors.
I would serve golden glasses of laughter,
and our tearstains would evaporate
with the years to cling with the dew
on the highest leaves of the
sequoia tree.
More than happenstance pipe dreams, now,
and I can sense the change in the
scent of the cafe: less of chemistry and
more bio-illogical spheres of life.
What more deserved than for a knight,
who found a poet's precious labors
in a taste ordinary -
effervescent, cheap sweetness, dry sodas -
but so slick to trickle down my
parched and raw throat,
finding home in the hydrochloric
lining of my core.
Here, this summer rain blooms
orchards, full of
ink-apples and nightingales singing
"you have something to say."
