I do not, for one more Monday morning,
expect to see you coming down the hall
bearing fragrant muffins—suborning
work with cinnamon and poppy seed delight
which I enjoy until I happen to recall
that in this merciless fluorescent light
my mirror shines with brutal honesty.
A decade separates our ages, no small
consideration, reminding me...
I will not, for one more slow-spun afternoon,
listen for the strains of jazz that slide
beneath your office door to importune
attention with their luscious riffs, reflecting
Africa's warm, ancient pulse. I am tied
to my Baroque sonatas, airs connecting
me to European roots. Heredity
has settled us on separate sides
of dark and light, another irony.
I shall not, in one more silken twilight,
read the poetry that you have penned,
subversive words which smolder and ignite
the tenets of our differing beliefs.
Canons of both cross and crescent moon portend
illicit love condemns a soul to grief.
And yet the creeds your cantos offer me
seem to sanctify my human core, blend
worship and desire with purity.
I cannot, for one more winter night,
wait until your hands, two wild black swans,
fly across my body's refuge and alight
to conjure tempest forces.
if Eve and Adam woke on that first dawn
grieving for their garden's ruined splendor
or did they celebrate the sun's first rise
washing over weeds beyond the sacred lawn
creation's goodness shining from their eyes.