I lived for the Batata mornings

Breakfast in bed

The eggs scrambled into the buttery

Malawach bread,

The other one -- the one filled with Nutella

for after the Coconut waffle

and for after the fries

… for after the first feature; and, for

after some work done for the boss -- nakedly;

Or, later (or, after that)

After your unraveling a rendering of your weeks’ yield of the drama

the trauma

By this time; my head was on your thigh

warmed by both your legs and your laptop,

petting the dogs head resting on your other thigh,

All of it making your belly so warm, I’d have to jerk the fan closer to me.

And, then after some laughter;

And, then after some Heideggar and Hagel and Kant;

And, then, after all sorts of S’ak pase and Na’ boule.

And, after all that

Finally

Your yielding,

Goddamnit

… your toes would curl up; and your horse breath in my ear

Would make my scalp go electric

Time could have been a song; or just its’ refrain;

And, the space of between you and me disappeared for

Just

a

minute.

To drift back, almost immediately,

into the week;

drifting back into sleep, forgetful until

the hurricane we had made -- our child (us made one)

bursts in …

And tells us she’s alive

– very much so.

 

“Tamale; tamale!” We finally figured out

after a couple of stakeouts was:

A guy on a bike, every Saturday (religiously).

 

A block away, the Imam goes at it again,

Five times every day:

Five moments to reflect – especially during Springtime when the windows were mostly open

And the decay wafting in from the nearby cemetery was sweet, like

              How it smells when rot transforms back into fresh

and virgin earth.

 

The trumpet of revelation always nearby and

within earshot

To have known then-and-there; or, in retrospect,

Especially, when we were being tame with each other,

(every once in a while)

… to recall at least *one* of those Batata mornings; in the R&B;

In the sweet potato fries;

and, in all sorts of other pronouns we had for

for naughty things.