Rifts

Mackie Blanton

Red Ruby in the spring time.

We are the rifts in one another’s measures.

A brother of my soul recalls his Rocky Top

woman who can stroke small things large.

Perhaps he will not mind when I take a sip

of ruby wine as I stroke Red Ruby’s fingertip.

We are the rifts in the measures of nations.

Versed, we drum, strum, hum – sing.

Red Ruby in the springtime.

We say Red Ruby because her scars rooted

so deep perk up like rubber bands and worms

scrawled around her chin and cheek. When

she laughs her special smiles and coughs

away her grins, her trauma transfers to us

like second-hand smoke because we were

not there to protect her black skin from white

assault in narrow daylight.

I pretend they are arrow beauty scars of the Wakamba.

                                    Red Red Ruby!

In the springtime.

That was many notes back and our women,

Rudy’s and mine, understand our need to rut,

to visit Ruby in the springtime, when

her almond tree and tulips blossom.  But

They tell me that Ruby does not exist

That she is a pigment stain of my imagination

That this is my way to combat a world philosophy

That says,

Put the vagina in jail

Wrap the vagina in a veil

Enclose the vagina behind lock and key

And that Rudy and Ruby do not exist.

I know sidewise: for their songs and poems insist.

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