by Yusef Komunyakaa
Do not think one nano-second that the
sound of my voice will
paint in chalk Pastels and
Wash off your Hands and Clothes.
You will hear the distant
echoes of me hiding wrinkled in me-mories
Pale of age, undulating, garbled may-be.
You (everything, everyone) painted me with fingers like
Children prancing over blank paper, staining it and their clothes.
Just as I (everything, everyone) have painted you.
Lovers should be in
museums, antiquated with grasping poise
--in their best light. In your
memories, the effect will be same.
Nostalgia by your side, near the hucklehedge,
in a summer rocking chair, the birds too in the trees, is a Museum of sort,
but I guess you do have something, we (all) will wash
away with the sands of Antarctica, and be
churned into seacow’s cud.