By Lind Grant-Oyeye
Silvery hair, bones thinned in-out, of life the silver screen speaks.
Letter M, embossed in audacious colors. It had begun long before her time...
time when clay pots were sanded out to shimmer.
It starts by falling—falling in love. Minute carts tenderly packed
full of moments, full of memories delicately loosely tied together.
It flows with fantasies of prized certificates, a desire for a stamp—the majestic seal of approval.
It flows to the stage of self-journey through dark subways, tunnels to the unfamiliar...
untested promise lands. She heard some had swam bellied-up in wavy pools,
Chillin' to the historic tempest.
Others swim to "bien venue" cat-calls, to honeymoons filled with French kisses,
flowers and fresh caresses, beauty and beautiful feet planted on cozy carpets,
romance lasting into wintery and the hurricane hugging days.
On strange lands were some feet planted. They kissed strangers
and slept with enemies—red juices pressed against their lips,
with the firm force of a heavyweight boxer's strength, kissing Judas' doppelganger
to the sweet sound of the language from Babel, spoken with a lover's passion.
Faint memories show M in the alphabet song, is for Migration, for marriage.
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