What's in Vince L. Wilson

entrance(ment)

time falls down, fills me up, possesses me, makes me dance

invisible red lines connect the sepia moments

everyday rituals. every day, rituals.

every time

my father prepared his sunday necktie

one side shorter than the other, over, up, around, through

making a long triangle into a tighter one

pressed perfectly against his collarbone

if there were no God, there would be a church

for that dignified moment. I watched this wordless masterclass, pretending

not to want to know, but knowing more each second

the symmetry: him through a mirror

dimple. pucker.

perfect silk wanting to be touched

by his amber fingers.

everyday rituals. every day, rituals.

every time

a cast-iron pan is used

mother to daughter. auntie to nephew.

the flavor of life inside that cauldron

seasoned by history

love that fills bellies with barely more than nothing, barely enough

there's something more than food in that black pan

and the cacophony of ladles, or excited grease

the sound of fever pitch humming

how can you cook and not sing? how can you love without melody?

we, like these magic contents, would settle and separate if we'd wait too long

this timeless place we meet to heat what we gather

a skillet is a platform for conversation

each drop of water we pour absorbs those sounds, that flavor

yesterday's temperature, a smoke-encoded memory

the magic of a moment framed in ebony

buttermilk and cranberries

(She liked tea anyhow.
cream and sugar
the way Mommom sipped it)

she: always
the fly in the buttermilk,
the last to know it. The only brown girl doing plies in ballet

She buzzed, 13 years old,
nose in the crease
National Geographic magazine
orange frame on the cover.
Page 13.

she didn't ask to be this way,
you know. (Black, in a
white light) -- it were as if

she had been on vacation
all this time
living perfectly fine
being homeless here, where

she didn't belong. Who took
Africa yesterday
gave her Heaven tomorrow? That was all

she saw: flies and poverty and
nappy hair and dirty feet. Titties floppin like yams and

she hated yams. And flies. But that girl,
page 13, had the same neck
elegant
the posture of a dancer
more necklaces than she
a dress the color of cranberries.     Was that where

she was from? a place to which she could never return? Who had taken her nappy-headed people and given them soot-black hot combs that burned
and cold, blue grease that saved her scalp
and white Jesus that would save her natural soul?

She ate her bellyfull
grateful:
people starvin in Africa, Ma said.
must be worse off
than the people starvin
in America,

she thought

Division

Real.

the humming of a sword unsheathed
under the sheen of a moonbeam
ready to pursue his deep intent

Rags

Haunt

Lay.

of beds
that would not know where to begin
if pillows were mouths
telling the stories that have been tossed across them

lovers climbing each other, trellises of limb and lust

or still as glaciers drifting in an ocean of silence, an arm's length apart
dreaming together separately--
the way one bed becomes two, in stealth

the place where headaches are fabricated and reveries that never manifest will marinate in possibility and longing

the zone where wet dreams dry up
and dessicated dreams are renewed with sweat and saliva

of uncomfortable comforters,

dainty duvets,
quiet quilts
quenching much to say:
we tug
on a too-tiny blanket of air,
bitterly angry at existence

(this used to be
the only place
we worked well together
and now the work
doesn't come
like it used to come)

These bodies: bent, broad, bold, brash, spliced thighs, spilling guts
moaning their narratives wordlessly,
making requests with urgent gestures

these sheets:
of rain, of ice, of mist,
uncovering more than they cover
unleashing beasts, taming none

(I peel you
pull you apart
the last sweet orange of the season
and enjoy each pulpy section
as if it were the last
relishing in the juice on this bed)

stories of violence and demand: we throw ourselves
into each other
and reach with famished mouths for the words inside
we tell each other where it hurts
and where we want it to hurt

then sleep, rogue
satiated

Let's cuddle
while I listen
to your body's story

in that kitchen

is that cinnamon in melted butter
over a slow fire?

a pot almost ready to boil over
hot
to the rim

I taste you, eyes first. so sweet
my teeth tingle

face damp with evaporation
lips pink with anticipation

that scent
that sends
my throat
humming
with water
surely
i'll be
coming
back for more

you stir
I dance
ready
to dive
no fork
finger first
waiting will
make my
foodlust worse

this matter's
no time for
manners
when my appetite
is fatter
(and the truth is
I never had any couth
when it came to eating
so things may splatter
all across the platter)

I'll take it hot
fresh off the burner

black keys for pentatonic melodies

touch my neck

and decorate

my vibrato

with tremolo

each glance, worshipful

these loveless inutile limbs have landed

on better opportunity

where you step

my earth is a cavern

the night is loud

when my star expands

into a universe

black matter filled with red blood

we orbit each other, unbent and hell-bent

my thigh,

a pedestal     

a lever     

a lover

my spine, a piano,

black keys for pentatonic melodies

play with me and see how I sound off

play on me and see how I sound inside

play drunk and see how sober I sound

Depot

the wind blew
a song
for every woman
with hair not her own

somehow they were all equally unmoved by the music

diabolic shadows arranged in chartreuse
from fluorescent light on pee-stained concrete

There was nobody saying goodbye