2. The rain floods the cobbles of Paris spring. Senghor breathes the shivering night blossoms, his name pinned to his chest, a moon-disk carved out of bone, marrow-veins and fungus: night, light indestructible, trees rushing to board the train south, their blossoms shaking loose as they push in through the doors, and Senghor there, framed with blossoms, like a tiger in Rousseau, drunk on wasps. Golden armour over their breasts, the meadowlarks cry out Artemis!, and the yellow mountain sunflowers burst out on the hills: the whole valley is full of song, ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja! but it was Senghor who gave me the night, the crow's voice, a stick scraped over a zinc bucket, its wings like a window breaking, wind flowing through a house, a river, weeping Senghor, Senghor, Senghor, bodies, black, oiled, dancing in the night.
|The East Village Poetry Web