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Bottoms Up, One More Round
By Rudolph Lewis
We knock at the door,
demand entry into that house
which never was, like
Nkrumah’s Africa as a luminous
candle or resurrected
life as a divine comedy. Like lovers
we plunge into the sea
of pulsing hearts with obligations
rank as wayfarers in
their gin & prayer-rugs bootlegged
for bail & a beauty
spot. We are intoxicated lovers,
Beloved. Our dark
memories unravel paths of error as we
wander in a trackless
waste repeatedly like a drunk seeking
oblivion free of self,
the rhythm of the conga. It may sound
hollow a robe tossed
aside. We become love sick, eyes half-
opened singed wings
around the candle flame. Let’s hold
firm to the shores of
darkness inmost secrets drunker than
the radiance of
whiskey, overwhelmed by the odor of
sacrifice &
non-existence, the scandal of the bazaar incurring
no other benefit. I
got news for you, preachers shun me
and torture me from
the pulpit. Leave open the tavern for me.
I’m weary of church &
school, veils, faces enraged by wise men
—obstacles between us.
Forsake their assembly. My imprudent
hand runs slowly down
their thighs. This pitch of pain inflames
my heart, ecstatic. We
shed garments of modest hypocrisy—
the prostitute’s
breath & the patched cloak of the drunkard
seeking relief in the
idol-house. Beloved, our hands are strapped
to a wine jar beside our bed until Resurrection
kisses our heads. |
