Monday, June 19, 2017


Jackie Lopez Lopez

Sit at my table, and tell me your glory.
I have prepared a banquet of many stars for you.
I wear my garments of poetry.
Please don’t go.
Sit at my table, and show me those eyes.
I found a feather when I was homeless, and I called you.
I keep you in my thoughts throughout my journey here on Earth.
Last sunshine, I took a weekend to the moon.
I know you are sincerely a Baptist and you like to heal people.
Do you often capitulate to hearsay?
I heard you were a shaman, so,
I stole your books.
I felt redeemed at your parties.
I never stole anything in my life, although, books follow me.
Sit at my table, and I promise not to lie to you:
You are my kin.
Let me serve you some kindness with some truth.
Let me give you a plate of ordeals.
Let me struggle out of this dress.
Let me kiss your breath.
My feet have walked 153, 000 lives, and I am tired.
I will behave the lady, the priestess, the Goddess, the nymph, the mother, your sister, and your child.
But I am the crone.
The desert is my skin.
The knife is my heart.
The rivers are my hair.
And the oceans are my home.
I am your kin that asks you to sit at my table.
I have prepared a banquet of many stars for you.

Let me see those eyes.

No comments:

Post a Comment

So Why Did I Defend Paul Bowles?

by Hisham Aidi  In the mid-1990s, I used to lead literary walking tours of “Paul Bowles’s Tangier” for friends or literary pilgrims visitin...