Upon the Cusp of Blackness’ Ride
John Gregory Evans
© 5/9/2020 12:01:04 PM
Upon the cusp of blackness, we stare, I
see a hope clinging to the everywhere,
religiosity is an interior pull
of white corpses
walking, without purpose but to be saved
through the mechanized wheel of traveldom, your
misfortune, where dead bodies aspire to heal.
As if a preacher man from the Right
conceals the truth together, tonight
or if he burns with lies, that conceals his fate…
the black weaves are Real, Jesus is alive
in a dance of bobbing bodies
with a feel for the darkness of night
around the bonfire of attachment, an intimacy
so close, your body has left you, and
Christ with midnight mingles with his lost sheep,
spiritually, mystically, sacredly upon your 40-year sleep.
Then comes the rise of morn,
that feels like watermelon on a hot summer day, with
a pinkish-red of sky, flavor slides down
a throat of color,
as flesh to flesh, bound
one to the other…
through espoused love affairs
blending to black, upon my back, mounds of fruit prevail, breasts
take me away to a crescent moon,
of fore play, eroticized, and
sweet as the day.
Nothing more has surprised me then the beauty
of two souls mystically entwined, giving through honesty’s ride
for the release of a lightning bolt, a shout of thunder,
and the mystery to come, as dazed, for the entirety of lovers, thus
side by side.
With grateful inspiration from Rita Dove; Poet Laureate of the United States, 1993-1995.