Pleasure Dome. Yusef Komunyakaa

The Other,

      did you forget

      Dracula was singled out

      because of his dark hair

      & olive skin? After

      you became your cover,

      tabloid headlines

      grafted your name

      to a blond boy’s.

      The personals bled

      through newsprint,

      across your face. Victor

      Frankenstein knew we must

      love our inventions. Now,

      maybe skin will start to grow

      over the lies & subtract

      everything that under-

      mines nose & cheekbone.

      You could tell us if

      loneliness is what

      makes the sparrow sing.

      Michael, don’t care

      what the makeup

      artist says, you know

      your sperm will never

      reproduce that face

      in the oval mirror.

Pepper

      If you were alive, Art

      Pepper, I’d collar you

      as you stepped off the

      bandstand. Last notes

      of “Softly as a Morning

      Sunrise” fall between us,

      a hint of Africa

      still inside your alto.

      Someone wants to blame

      your tongue on drugs: “If I

      found out some white broad

      was married to a black guy

      I’d rave at her in games

      & call her tramp, slut,

      whore.” Did you steal

      the Phoenix’s ashes

      listening to Bird?

      I’m angry for loving

      your horn these years,

      wooed by the monkey

      riding you in L.A.

      as if changes in “Mambo

      De La Pinta” could be

      rounded off to less

      than zero. Words

      you tried to take back

      left blood on the reed.

South Carolina Morning

      Her red dress & hat

      tease the sky’s level-

      headed blue. Outside

      a country depot,

      she could be a harlot

      or saint on Sunday

      morning. We know

      Hopper could slant

      light till it falls

      on our faces. She waits

      for a tall blues singer

      whose twelve-string is

      hours out of hock,

      for a pullman porter

      with a pigskin wallet

      bulging with greenbacks,

      who stepped out of Porgy

      at intermission. This is

      paradise made of pigment

      & tissue, where apples

      ripen into rage & lust.

      In a quick glance,

      beyond skincolor,

      she’s his muse, his wife—

      the same curves

      to her stance, the same

      breasts beneath summer cloth.

Rendezvous

      Her fingertips touch his

      left palm, her grin

      like an image stolen

      from Fellini’s La Strada.

      “Don’t you ever wonder

      where the Chinese were

      in the ’60s, when you

      & Chavez were out there

      facing dogs & billyclubs,

      don’t you wonder?” Her voice

      somewhere between Atlanta

      & Boston. Her blue eyes

      linger on his Igbo face.

      “Family makes them so

      strong,” he says, smoothing out

      the napkin. “They’ve been here

      since the early railroad days,

      maybe longer. I don’t know.”

      The waitress brings their

      chardonnay. Before she turns

      to leave, he notices the dragons

      on her green silk jacket

      in some tussle of pale

      light across her breasts.

      “I’m fascinated by all this

      Chinese stuff. Instructions

      for Court Ladies, Du Fu,

      I read what I can get

      my hands on, anything,”

      she says. A tiger fish

      kisses the aquarium with its

      dark nose, eyes like two

      bulbous bloodstones. On a wall

      to the right, a representation

      of Yan Liban’s The Emperor

      Wu of the Northern Zhou looms.

      “Have you ever seen a black

      waitress in a place like this?”

      She’s so quiet at the office—

      does he know her, can the night go

      anywhere? “I like your dress,”

      he says. She nods & smiles.

      The waitress serves their sweet

      & sour prawns, snow peas

      & curry chicken. Blue bowls

      of steamed rice. “At Mount Zhiju

      is an inscription about black

      hair. Oh, well, I don’t know

      what I’m talking about

      these days.” She pops

      a prawn into her mouth.

      The hot curry tingles

      his tongue.