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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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