Mama
Mama said she loved me more than dance floors.
Or the radio. Or any man.
Mama wore black dresses. The left strap
of her bra was always loose,
hanging over her exposed shoulder.
She was always losing her umbrella,
leaving it in buses on rainy days.
But Mama said she'd never hold onto anything
as tight as me.
But when she left me one night
at Aunt Viola's, her boy friend's
engine revving, and him honking at the curb
like a taxi driver trying to make
a run for the airport by 9
she kissed me for the last time.
She turned towards the dark air,
into a gust of rain and a car door thrown open.
She disappeared around a corner.
In the room's corner
was her umbrella
and me.
Holy
I have a holy book
I know as well as my poverty.
I recite scriptures
to keep temptations
away.
But her hair
is a bell of sweet herbs
as she passes me.
Her nipples nod
as if we're old friends,
and my heart jumps the way a deer
leaps over a neighbor's shrub,
without effort.
That
is why I'm applying for a job,
shedding my past as easily
as my robe, my beads
clattering to the floor.
Her cleavage is like a trail
down a canyon. There are many paths
to enlightenment.
Copyright © 2006 Bob Bradshaw
