but [my] love is music—
it is why there are strings
inside my name,
a quivering for the purples
of my lover’s voice.
inside my voice,
a rattling for the miracles
in my lover’s body.
sing me into a winter groove,
hide my name inside the shadows
of your music,
of a thousand contralto songs.
see—at the end of the road, ants gather
to lick your name.
beneath the curtain of crescent nights, irokos bow
to the sonority of the melodies
in your breasts.
Kémi, sing till your voice is a clef—
something the mouth of every worshipper
will learn to carry.
I want to know no other hymn, but
your body, no other song, but your music.