If my lips should flutter and cuddle

next to yours, like a butterfly

matching its colors

with the dewy-morning splendor of hyacinth––

do not think I am only trying to steal a kiss.

Or if my arms suddenly circle your waist

like silver surrounding a virgin moon,

and my belly trembles heated signals of smoke

all up and down the burning shores of your flesh––

do not think I desire scandal, or infamy.

There is a reason that my voice huddles

like a child made of broken wings inside your heart.

The language my body speaks is less eloquent

than French, and not so precise as Swahili.

Sometimes my shoulders are speaking to you

of how I was raped at the age of twelve.

Sometimes my kiss is humming the poetry

that pulled the gun out of my mouth.

A wise African named Nadra told me the language

of angels is what makes the earth spin,

and what causes the sun to shine drunk with love.

Perhaps I shall learn a word or two.

Maybe then, you will understand?

(from I Made My Boy Out of Poetry)

Aberjhani