I.
He smiles at me in the dark
as if well pleased with his conquest.
Naked, intertwined in moonlight
Original Black to American brown.
He tells me stories of places
I only dream about.
Africa lives in his tongue.
His mouth tastes sweet.
Each kiss is a path to the unknown.
We find our way home in the fit of our bodies.
As if the nap and curl of my locks tangled between his fingers
Reminds him of the clinging Earth in Nigeria.
I trace maps of longing for the Motherland down his spine.
Embrace him like the Atlantic.
Until memories of the Middle Passage are dissolved
in our coming.
II.
I am discovering what it means to be an American girl
through his eyes.
This life I have taken for granted.
These blessings I give no daily thanks for.
The freedom I disdain, and clamor about political injustice.
Pale in comparison to corruption, wars, slain heroes and the
struggle of our people across the water.
Still he smiles, flashing ivory, as if invincible.
My heart sinks into despair.
Surrendering my romantic vision of Africa, against his living testament.
He reminds me there is still beauty in the land of my ancestors.
Our people are survivors on both shores.
We speak hope, and wrap love into hard words, wanting so much more
for our kindred.
III.
72 hours ago
We did not exist to one another.
God shines on the unsuspecting.
I have come to appreciate Sundays
in a new way.
Yearning to find a piece of myself
in the lilt of his Yoruba accent.
Discover the history hidden
in the glide of his hands down my hips.
I am no mystery to myself
when reflected in his eyes.
There is comfort in the curve
of his arm.
Holding my heart in my palms.
I wonder if this is what it feels like to find
Home.
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