The smell of coffee
two cups lie unwashed
sound of the night bus of london passing
from the window I see the street light and the stillness of a concretely created environment
And here I am at 5 am
at 37 now
and with the same question that cups of coffee and wine combined
have brought up at 5 am
The question of why I am here
why haven't I expanded into the air
given myself up?
Why am I here?
And at 37 a second question
why am I still here?
At 26 the answers were hard to come by
I would walk with the question across london
on night buses
and into conversations with trees
but even then I knew the answer had something to do with champagne and Fanon.
Something to do with holding the two together
now I know that I am here because I am sensual.
Because the gaze of a cat can
penetrate to my soul
as much as to my heartbeat
because an earthquake has less of an impact
then the purring of you Gugu Guevara
I know that to move with you Cristina
to canter and glisten embraced by your feet
to be held by you
and gently washed by you
to contemplate your skin along with the moon
presents an answer
I know that to stand with comrades
a few or many
to fight a little – but always, consistently, a little at a time.
To wait for those behind
that is to wait for oneself
not to rush on ahead
not to be spend
is part of the answer
I haven't given myself up.
I haven't spent myself.
I am here at thirty seven
a little spent and a little preserved
sensual and perplexed,
not rushing on ahead
Learning to wait for myself
This poem is a part of Naked Punch Issue 18. To buy the issue click here.