dedicated to a girl with a truly gorgeous bosom

a voice that bespeaks
countless cigarettes, but the smoke
lies not in her face; no, not
in the smooth contours
of that tea-colored neck, nor
in the supple, summery-brown slopes
leading lines, shyly disappearing into her bodice.

in another century, such a volatile slip of a negro-girl
would have been an apprentice witch
to an obeah, and married among the seaweed children of
Barbados.

as is, she leans over the black skin of the
laboratory table, and chatters incompetently
about seconds and other
frivolous units of measurement.

Mare, girl of rare ocean foam;
a witch by any other name would
reek of the same summer blooms,
incunabulum of dying marshes, the pox of
all barbadoan migrants

more emissaries of the nu
dawn

nevermore shall be seen such
gold-drop spirals
such geometrically rebellious slopes
bronzen curvate, cupulated creatures
whose hardening upon taction is not
for lack of welcome.

11.28.10