Calypso’s hair comes down for me:
copper points of light, the pins
and ornaments. Small sacrifice am I
for the kindness of those fingers
impatient, pulling icons from her hair.
The smoke coming up from the harbor
obscures the lines of her face.
She bends her head over
and hangs like a silk in a marketplace.
She makes a cap of her hands
to ask questions.
Night follows night:
I lean my captured face
hard into the rack of her body.
Rain makes a river to the shoreline,
makes the boatless ocean broader still.
My darling, I want to put my teeth
into the space between us.
her fingers knotted in her hair.
Stephanie Bobo 1983
© 1983, 2010