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letra de thursday poem - joel dias-porter

so i’m laying across a leather couch with maria
her half-mexican mouth and chile green eyes
watch jordan float across the court
it’s been six days since my small black eyes
have decided not to see you
now my head sinks into the soft of her thighs
as jordan wins the game with a long jumper
we cheer, then k!ll the tv and chill
in the speakers on her mantle, it’s round midnight
but she doesn’t want my hands stroking her leg
and her fingers refuse to enter my hair
as though frightened by my need to be touched
i don’t know how to ask a woman to hold mе
so i make excuses and roll from hеr crib
it’s too late for the subway, so i walk
the air swipes its sweaty hands across my face
and thirteen blocks from first st. nw
i pass where charlie’s seafood used to be
and remember that day i had only two dollars
but bought some sweet potato pie for $1.50
then came up to your apartment without calling
your eyeball asks who is it? through the peephole
i yell me, and a slice of your favorite pie
you crack the door, eye me like an errant child
your lips red as pistachio sh-lls
don’t ever do this again you say, then let me in
you make apple cinnamon tea, say let’s play dominoes
we turn a box over and plop on big pillows
you shuffle the bones and count out seven
turning yours on their sides so i can’t see
i gather mine around me like tiny tombstones
after whupping me twice and talking much trash
you lay on your back with your numbers facing up
your mouth blank beneath the black dots of your eyes
i align your spine like a row of dominoes
then feed you sweet potato pie from a plastic fork
that almost melts as it touches your lips
i consider letting you have the whole slice
but you say let’s split it, like a wishbone
i scoot close, brush hair from your shoulder
as you lean into the rhythm of my hand
your fingers tip-toe up the back of my neck
and a smile curves the corners of your eyes
now, i’m at the corner of seventh and florida ave.,
wondering if this red light will ever change
and although i try to deny it
the memory of your fingertips tingles
and maybe i don’t just want their touch
maybe i need their touch
not like the letter q needs to be followed by u
but like a small i needs the pupil that dots it

- joel dias porter

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