A goddess whose face
Glistens like the eclipse on rainbow mornings
Her thoughts
Like a four hundred thread count
Of fine Egyptian cotton
She bears curves that
Shape tributaries of the Nile
Leaving the strangers bewildered
To North Africa
Like a model to a potter that
Took three hundred and sixty moons
To create
She stinks of perfection
Her exterior renders crowns inferior
Perhaps a descendant to close neighbors to
Queen Sheba
A once concubine from Africa
Who appears
In wise ancient scrolls
Her skin soft
Baked from ostrich egg
With thick sticky pure honey from
Wild Serengeti
Our eyes mate in unison
Like the last fading echo from
Mountains of ice, a place with
Winds that melt all living ego
Son!
Another peek deep into her eyes
There I find a woman forged in coin
The sweet scented coated fabric of her being
Placed on a pedestal embroiled in
Waste carnal
Son! I will tell you!
I will tell you after it all that
The beautiful ones are all dead to mortality
Son! The ones that leave your eyes dancing
Are not but beautiful
The beautiful ones are born at the cross
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