Tuesday, May 29, 2018

King of Kreations by Angel Nafis


King of Kreations

Onliest man who lay hands on me. Pointer finger pad between my
       eyes.
Pinky knuckle cool on cheekbone. God of precision, blade at my
       throat, 

for a half hour, you love me this way. Together we discover what I
       got
from my folks—widows peak, dandruff, hair growing fast in
       concentric O’s.  

Claude, so damn beautiful, I can count on one hand the times I’ve
       looked
directly in your face, for fear I might never come back. You
       knower of me.  

To get right I come to you. When I’m finna interview. When I’m
       finna banquet   
or party. When I must stunt, I come to you—  

It is mostly you, but, not always. After all you gotta eat too.
So sometimes it’s Percival, face like stones, except when he’s
       smiling.
Sometimes it’s Junior who sings the whole time he lines up the
       crown.  

No matter how soft my body           or how many eyes find it and peel
               when I walk in the shop                in the chair, I am of them.
                               Not brother. Not sister.              When he wields
       the razor and takes me
                                              low it’s like when a woman gets close to
       the mirror to slide the lipstick
                                                          on slow. Draws a line so perfect
       she cuts her own self from the clay. 

 

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