reMembering Mulatta. Christy Sampson-Kelly

scale the mountain that is Albacon Road

      through bodily memory alone

      knowing another sighting

      of my pending ascent

      would re-present me here

      on the out side of reverie.

      A Cry in the Dark

      Its piercing cry

      swallows the serenity

      of a room.

      Requiring simply this

      to destroy

      what, in the aftermath

      of their synchronization

      seems so perfect.

      One desperately grasping

      to salvage

      whatever

      if anything

      may be left.

      The Other desperately grasping

      to preserve

      whatever

      if anything

      is to come.

      Each helpless

      in their implausible existence.

      Suffering

      as a result of something as trivial

      as a cry in the dark.

      Deflecting Truth

      Illuminating whispers

      possess the breathtaking power

      of obscurity

      with continual showing

      of things unfamiliar

      to words spoken.

      Dark footpaths

      wandered by bare feet

      rely on uncommitted hands

      to carry Diogenes’ borrowed lantern.

      Attempts to re-call humanness

      are un-re-turned,

      with facing nothing.

      Not mother,

      thoughtfully feeling her way

      through this shadowy

      and vexing terrain.

      Not father

      lost and stuck

      in a multiflora rose bush

      just east of the Bronx River.

      Vulnerability

      As he sits

      letting the smooth melody he selected wash over him,

      he is awed.

      How could he

      even for a moment

      have believed

      again.

      Thinking back to the time before today,

      when he last heard

      that sweet voice.

      The sound of it floods his mind

      melting into the melody

      emanating from his system.

      Droplet

       by droplet

       he falls.

      Starting first at his mouth,

      then down his chest

      and around his thighs

      until finally

      he is drenched

      in thought.

      He imagines penetrating eyes

      the color of dawn

      with golden flecks dancing through it.

      Their fire warms him,

      then gradually

      becomes more and more heated,

      causing an unleashing

      of smothered desire.

      Unable to satisfy it

      he lay, letting it devour him.

      Exhausted

      he ventures one last thought,

      upon whose entrance

      a weak smile

      adorns his face.

      Contented with this

      he drifts

      into tranquility.

      Lass

      Voice travels

      across the silent wailing air

      of early morning,

      well before sunrise.

      Hoping desperately to convey meaning

      to one already balancing

      over a fragile state of affairs.

      A soul thrashes furiously

      beneath the encumbrance of weightless words

      attempting to force a clenched mouth