And What Does He See

The poetic journey, exploring the mind of a black woman, a queen. Poems By Iris A Garner

I had the strangest dream.

My soul was as caught in upward breezes,

scattered and warm,

like long, quick brush-strokes of light.


And I realized I was floating in air,

in a whirl, effervescent.

You spun me all about, effortlessly.

Gently, your fingers at a hand, your fingers at a toe,

my wrist, my shoulder, my waist--each flick

sending my spin in a different direction, gently.


You cartwheeled me and then, teasingly,

around another way,

and then along yet another axis.


I thought you were showing off…

then, I blushed.  

I realized that you were studying me...

all the forms and facets of.


I felt like a gem in the hands of a jeweler:

like something precious that had been found by

the only one who could appreciate it,

mined up from the dark

where I'd endured filth and fire and pressure,

but had never shone.


I felt as if filaments of attention were lighting on me,

like the threads of a spider.


It was comfortable.  

Like a blanket: soft, bright, warm, white;

nearly imperceptible threads...piling up on me like snow.  


"Ohhhh, who is this?", I asked...although I think I knew.  

"Is this my Desert? Could that be?"

"Oh, why can't you be still?"

I chuckled, "Well, it's hard, to be still.  

I'm an Ocean after all.  It's mine, to roll,

and sway. Besides: I'm doing what I can."


"Well, alright."

And soon enough I was all wrapped up.  

Supported weightless in your arms,

your eyes but inches from mine.


And you stared, you stared.  

As if there were a second to come

...And I sighed, summoned open, into the poetry of your kisses.

The simplest things are bliss.