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