In OldFactories

In the morning you scrub your face with cinnamon and honey.
With your shirt tied up for the heat,
glow in argan oils and perspiration.
You smell of coconut and orange juice
of firewood and staying up late.
Angel of the knee-high Caribbean sea
angel of those who refuse to wait.
At night you pick a single sprig from the garden –
rosemary –
roll it with sugar, turmeric, shea butter.
You praise your own skin. You’ve made earth worship.
The world participates in you as much as you participate in it.
Like a color sequence, like a pianist’s poem,
and
the beginning and end get to be you.

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