Someday soon, in the distant past,
with an evening the colour of falling
maple leaves, I am trapped in a windowless
room – the desert is within us all.
I pose, pleased with my skin of darkness
and I will speak to you in lizard tongue
and shining face.
But night is still night to conjure
a backdrop of Georgia O’Keefe’s
bleached bones and bountiful blooms,
I come to you with my wild soul
thirsty for sugared water with fruit
nestled into my indigo hair.