In Nappy Edges Ntozake Shange said something like this.
"Quite simply a poem should fill you up with something."
Could make you swoon, stop in your tracks, change your mind
or make it up.
A poem, she says, should happen to you like cold water,
or a kiss celebrating passion.
"Brazen as a crack pipe selling, traveling salesman,
who scams a taxi driver, sneaks into my house
and draws a bubble bath in my clawfoot tub.
Foreplay like that.
Face down in tangled lotus flowers
transplanted to a shallow pool in the everglades, tongue
kissing, a crocodile drunk on Gatorade and thrilled.
He just escaped a dare to sunbathe
in the bed of a Prada pickup truck,
idled by flat front tires.
Passion like that.
Relishing your wet sex chanting sea salt scented language
of awe like a sommelier, graduated from high school
in Southeast DC.
Humble shoulders curved like a Muslim bowing
for the eighth prayer of the day,
fending off blue wind of low riding constellations,
insisting.
We shush this luxurious conversation
spoken in the round.
Loving like that.
When I fall back off your rippling glistening
nipple nodding like a swooning newborn,
cradle the back of my neck.
Blows soft puffs of change into my mouth.
Hum a bluesy nameless lullaby until I see halos of intimacy
like blink, Olympic rings swirling slowly
above your head.
Love like that.
Be like that.
Before I faint, chant my name in your nighttime voice, raspy
as Bobby Womack.
Streaked with soprano only my touch summons.
Gloom all gone.
Like that.
Yeah, like that.
Tambourine shivering up and down our ovulating spines.