Man
on the Bus
His skin was brown;
but also,
it held the rich red of cinnamon
tempered
by the blue of fire's light.
Then there was thickness, molten fluidity;
golden
hues danced upon the fabric of it.
From away
it was velvet, darker than the blood of soil.
I thought
it might shimmy beneath my fingertips,
the interrupted
stillness of a gathering of water.
His close cropped hair clung greedily;
silken
shards of glass, insolent movement,
its blackness
ravenous, eating the moonlight.
I smiled
at my face in its reflection.
Upon my eyelashes knelt joy:
His beauty
lent itself
to something
like belief.
Copyright © 2001 Karnilla Anne Carder-Schingoethe
Edited by Jennifer Glickstein.
