Baskadia

Your black boy

Is a garden of stumps,

his heart is rooted

out of a fertile ground

for you to plant

a dream on his

Humus skin.

he Is a machine

Void of human language.

He understands solely,

his breath on your skin

and the sweet nectar

of your pineapple lips.

Again, he is an illustrative

painting of your dad.

He watches you grow

Into his arms like sweet alyssums

sprouting in early winter

as he lays on your flower bed

nurturing his lovelessness into something.

And of all that he deserves...

the roses between your thighs,

in his melodramatic dream

that all the flowers in the world

belong to him.

Art: Judith Yahaya

Kelvin writes