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.

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