Monday, June 26, 2006

new poem. the line breaks'll be all jacked up, but it's a sestina.

Proposal (for Patrick Rosal)

It is too late for the rhythm of her feet
to trace the bend of tracks
that railroad into a blueless night.
Instead of ride, she has chosen to walk.
She paces each step away from him
by the smoky drag of the moon

a 1972’s dusty moon
the flatline of Ghana currency traces the curve of her cheaply sandaled feet.
If she is going to marry him
it will take the length of these tracks,
and the hipsway heart drum of her walk
to settle this tonight.

He wanted to see her after dinner. Like every night,
she longed for his blueblack skin split wide for teeth that shamed the moon,
but a nervous cigarette- angled walk,
the 6/8 tap of feet and
his constant gaze at the tracks
betrayed him.

She knew his heart was eating him.
This blueless night,
where the station in Kumasi meets the tracks,
He asks if the moon
will make the same shadows beneath their feet
in the country where it is said money lines the streets people walk.

He knew her heart was troubling her, so he told her to take a walk…
and she is ten paces from home when she realizes him!
He would risk the fading echo of her feet,
the ache of quiet night,
the crescent question mark of moon,
and a divide of tracks,

to let her know there will always be tracks.
She can always choose to walk.
And now she knows she wants the moon
but only the one she can watch with him.
She is laughing into the night,
imagining how they will dress their New York feet.

On the other side of the tracks, tears and cigarettes consume him
he will walk the rest of this night
until dawn welcomes his feet,without a clue that she has said yes to the moon.
abena koomson