Pleasure Dome. Yusef Komunyakaa

like something sinful.

      “Have you ever heard of Ah

      Coy & Ha Gin?” He shakes

      his head, knitting his brows.

      “I’m just fooling, being

      awful silly tonight.”

      He notices the poster of Monkey

       Creates Havoc in Heaven

      tacked beside the kitchen door

      where the scent of ginger & garlic

      stream up from hot sesame oil

      like ghosts. “I used to come

      here last year. Every Friday.

      The place hasn’t changed.

      We used to sit right here

      in this same booth. Paul

      & me.” He wishes she’d stop

      talking. Those flowers

      beside the cash register

      are too damn red to be

      real. “That was before he

      started dating a Chinese girl.

      I think her family has money.”

      The waitress refills their

      glasses. “Are you sure you

      want to talk about this?”

      he says. She picks at

      the snow peas with her fork.

      “They come here all the time,

      & I bet he’d just die

      if he saw us together.”

Once the Dream Begins

      I wish the bell saved you.

      “Float like a butterfly

      & sting like a bee.”

      Too bad you didn’t

      learn to disappear

      before a left jab.

      Fighting your way out of a clench,

      you counter-punched & bicycled

      but it was already too late:

      gray weather had started

      shoving the sun into a corner.

      “He didn’t mess up my face.”

      But he was an iron hammer

      against stone, as you

      bobbed & weaved through hooks.

      Now we strain to hear you.

      Once the dream begins

      to erase itself, can the

      dissolve be stopped?

      No more card tricks

      for the TV cameras,

      Ali. Please come back to us

      sharp-tongued & quick-footed,

      spinning out of the blurred

      dance. Whoever said men

      hit harder when women

      are around, is right.

      Word for word,

      we beat the love

      out of each other.

Ogoni

      Neighbors, please don’t

      mind me this morning

      at windows balling my fists

      at the sun. Lowdown

      bastards, imbeciles

      & infidels, a tribunal

      of jackasses behind

      mirrored sunglasses

      with satchels of loot—wait,

      calm down, count to twenty

      & take a few deep breaths.

      You don’t want to disgrace

      his heroic tongue. Go

      to the kitchen window

      & sit in that easy chair

      striped like a zebra,

      & imagine how a herd runs

      with an oscillating rhythm,

      like a string bass & drums

      trading riffs. The big cats

      can only see a striped hill

      moving beneath a sunset,

      a grid of grass & trees

      in motion, a pattern to fear

      & instinct, because they run

      as one, as sky & earth. Look

      at the scrappy robin & bluejay

      squabble over earthworms

      underneath the ginkgo,

      as a boy on the edge

      of memory raises a Daisy

      air rifle. Look at the robin

      puff out its bright chest

      like a bull’s eye. Only

      a boy could conjure

      a ricochet in his cocky head

      that hits a horseshoe

      looped around an iron peg,

      a little of God’s geometry

      to get things perfect.

      A single red leaf

      spirals to the ground.

      Where did the birds

      go, & why am I

      weeping at this window?

      That’s not my face

      strung to the hands

      holding the gun, unmasked

      by the Shell trademark

      on his gold moneyclip,

      worms throbbing behind

      the scab grown over

      his eyes. Those damn

      bastards murdered a good man

      when they hanged Ken

      Saro-Wiwa. Why was he

      so cool, did the faces of his

      wife & children steady

      his voice? “I predict

      the denouement of the riddle

      of the Niger delta

      will soon come.” Did

      you feel dead grass quiver

      & birds stop singing?

      To cut the acid rage

      & put some sugar back

      on the lying tongue,

      I’ll say my wife’s name

      forever—the only song

      I’m willing to beat

      myself up a hill for,

      to die with in my mouth.