BY XANDRIA PHILLIPS
I met a young girl today. Just the touch of her
elbow as I explained the DC metro was soft
enough to be worthwhile. I kept her there,
speaking. She had plans to visit Ghana,
my home country. She stepped on the red line
after I acquired her number. I know these young
types. I called her to throw hues across her eyes.
The blue-green in every palm frond which swayed
across the skies that I told her a young Black
ancestor of hers once stood beneath. I told her
about a black dog that used to follow me home
from secondary school who lived for the taste
of kenke. I told her that the chartreuse avocado
bodies are soft as a stick of butter left out under
the Accra sun. She isn’t the first girl I have done
this to. We met for lunch, and I glowed for her
under lucent lights. We cooked dinner together
that same day. She tensed when I wrapped
my arms around her for too long, feeling
the way my body responded to the smell
of her scalp. She would understand if she knew
how we both had a love for words, their nuance,
their malleability. We never die, we pass; we have
not slaved, we have served; and I wasn’t forceful,
never forced myself on a woman. I am convincing.
I am dynamic. I am persuasive with every organ
of my body hard with wanting a body half my age.
I was giving the moon a break in my mouth. No
pressure to shine off that glaring sun, just my slick
tongue discovering her craters.