I said to Poetry:"I'm finished
with you."
Having to almost die
before some wierd light
comes creeping through
is no fun.
"No thank you, Creation,
no muse need apply.
Im out for good times--
at the very least,
some painless convention."

Poetry laid back
and played dead
until this morning.
I wasn't sad or anything,
only restless.

Poetry said: "You remember
the desert, and how glad you were
that you have an eye
to see it with? You remember
that, if ever so slightly?"
I said: "I didn't hear that.
Besides, it's five o'clock in the a.m.
I'm not getting up
in the dark
to talk to you."

Poetry said: "But think about the time
you saw the moon
over that small canyon
that you liked so much better
than the grand one--and how suprised you were
that the moonlight was green
and you still had
one good eye
to see it with

Think of that!"

They were women then
My mama's generation
Husky of voice-Stout of
Step
With fists as well as
Hands
How they battered down
Doors
And ironed
Starched white
Shirts
How they led
Armies
Headragged Generals
Across mined
Fields
Booby-trapped
Ditches
To discover books
Desks
A place for us
How they knew what we
Must Know
Without knowing a page
Of it
Themselves.

Listen,
stop tanning yourself
and talking about
fishbelly
white.
The color white
is not bad at all.
There are white mornings
that bring us days.
Or, if you must,
tan only because
it makes you happy
to be brown,
to be able to see
for a summer
the whole world’s
darker
face
reflected
in your own.

Stop unfolding
your eyes.
Your eyes are
beautiful.
Sometimes
seeing you in the street
the folds zany
and unexpected
I want to kiss
them
and usually
it is only
old
gorgeous
black people’s eyes
I want
to kiss.

Stop trimming
your nose.
When you
diminish
your nose
your songs
become little
tinny, muted
and snub.
Better you should
have a nose
impertinent
as a flower,
sensitive
as a root;
wise, elegant,
serious and deep.
A nose that
sniffs
the essence
of Earth. And knows
the message
of every
leaf.

Stop bleaching
your skin
and talking
about
so much black
is not beautiful.
The color black
is not bad
at all.
There are black nights
that rock
us
in dreams.
Or, if you must,
bleach only
because it pleases you
to be brown,
to be able to see
for as long
as you can bear it
the whole world’s
lighter face
reflected
in your own.

As for me,
I have learned
to worship
the sun
again.
To affirm
the adventures
of hair.

For we are all
splendid
descendents
of Wilderness,
Eden:
needing only
to see
each other
without
commercials
to believe.

Copied skillfully
as Adam.

Original

as Eve.