Texte et Tableau de Jessica Karuhanga

A
I pulled kinks, your smallest spirals, from the brink of my tongue
Between the
Fingers as bells
Swinging scents of black
Recognized by black

B

I often pull down lids to the dust of the ground
Because our lives never mattered
But, next time I’ll try to return your gaze
With longing
To weave through reeds
lash to lash
as though they were lily pads

C
To all those who loved Ruby Dee,
You see the water setting in the eavestrough. You inquire on commission. The fear behind your inquiry is not as heavy as my silence. The well is now dry. We move on. There are only hints of incense in the cold. The carpet burn on my knees could file bones. I recall a ceiling. There was waving light on moist pavement. I was minding the ditch. You were welcoming. You were talking softly from a lowered window. The window rolls on a tongue. The rubber rolls on moist pavement. You were stalking me, warmly, home. You, slowing down, said, “Hello there. Don’t you remember me? We met before.” I did not remember this first meeting but the lie that answered “Yes” easily took form. I was minding the ditch when I fell into “Yes”. I was in your car. I was in your home. I was on a bed. I was in your car. You drove me home.

In each instance I am out of a body. I disappear. I am seeking to be here with a hope that you might see me. I am desperate with a hope that your trembling is more than a reflex or a collapse after coming. I could be anything. You are dense. You stare through images of flesh. I can feel the digging of your feet in deserts. Later, I am in the park, on a bench waiting, I see you with your family kicking a rolling ball. Your beloved, she, will always look at me severely. In her eyes I am the sting of drops. The frustration is the same.

In the second instance I am out of a body. I violently rub the spots out. I am shitting out your poison. Impressions of your thumbs on my lower back. I dream you are a bee. I move to tell the doctor but even my breath is silent. There are only hints of incense in the cold. The triggers are waves chasing one another. When she kisses me, the truths that answer “Yes” take form but I freeze. The triggers are like echoes of mythic wars when father speaks in tongues as midnight runs down the waterfall curtains of his room. I hear this through the base creaks of closed doors. The chattering bleeds through mouth-guards.

To my (one day) beloved,

Our bodies are folding in and around each other. In the love making and embraces we will always be boarders to each other. But, I will still listen to the ripples of your tossed stones. Rest your ear on my back. In fleeting brushes blood shall transfer between you and I. My lines transitioning into your lines. Within our gripping hands, tracks, and shivering arm hairs. I am (envisioning, and dreaming of) drawing circles on your belly, your wrists, and the inner bends of limbs with lips.