^{for the Geechee Gullah Ring Shouters}

One of the women greeted me.

I love you, she said. She didn’t

Know me, but I believed her,

And a terrible new ache

Rolled over in my chest,

Like in a room where the drapes

Have been swept back. I love you,

I love you, as she continued

Down the hall past other strangers,

Each feeling pierced suddenly

By pillars of heavy light.

I love you, throughout

The performance, in every

Handclap, every stomp.

I love you in the rusted iron

Chains someone was made

To drag until love let them be

Unclasped and left empty

In the center of the ring.

I love you in the water

Where they pretended to wade,

Singing that old blood-deep song

That dragged us to those banks

And cast us in. I love you,

The angles of it scraping at

Each throat, shouldering past

The swirling dust motes

In those beams of light

That whatever we now knew

We could let ourselves feel, knew

To climb. O Woods—O Dogs—

O Tree—O Gun—O Girl, run—

O Miraculous Many Gone—

O Lord—O Lord—O Lord—

Is this love the trouble you promised?

He will surely take it out when you’re alone



And let it dangle between you like a locket on a chain.



Like any world, it will flicker with lights that mean dwellings,



Traffic, a constellation of need. Tiny clouds will drag shadows



Across the plane. He’ll grin watching you squint, deciphering



Rivers, borders, bridges arcing up from rock. He’ll recite



Its history. How one empire swallowed another. How one



Civilization lasted 3,000 years with no word for eternity.



He’ll guide your hand through the layers of atmosphere,



Teach you to tamper with the weather. Swinging it



Gently back and forth, he’ll swear he’s never shown it



To anyone else before.

^{after the photo by Jonathan Bachman}

Our bodies run with ink dark blood.

Blood pools in the pavement’s seams.



Is it strange to say love is a language

Few practice, but all, or near all speak?



Even the men in black armor, the ones

Jangling handcuffs and keys, what else



Are they so buffered against, if not love’s blade

Sizing up the heart’s familiar meat?



We watch and grieve. We sleep, stir, eat.

Love: the heart sliced open, gutted, clean.



Love: naked almost in the everlasting street,

Skirt lifted by a different kind of breeze.