If my lips should flutter and cuddle
next to yours, like a butterfly
matching its colors
with the dewy-morning splendor of hyacinth––
do not think I am only trying to steal a kiss.
Or if my arms suddenly circle your waist
like silver surrounding a virgin moon,
and my belly trembles heated signals of smoke
all up and down the burning shores of your flesh––
do not think I desire scandal, or infamy.
There is a reason that my voice huddles
like a child made of broken wings inside your heart.
The language my body speaks is less eloquent
than French, and not so precise as Swahili.
Sometimes my shoulders are speaking to you
of how I was raped at the age of twelve.
Sometimes my kiss is humming the poetry
that pulled the gun out of my mouth.
A wise African named Nadra told me the language
of angels is what makes the earth spin,
and what causes the sun to shine drunk with love.
Perhaps I shall learn a word or two.
Maybe then, you will understand?
