April

I am singing a new song

there are foreign miracles in my body. 

I no longer break when I am shaken 

by love, I morph survival from 

the mouth of the open days

I shift the window to April, the

rains greet me as I lay on the bed

with her above me, asking with 

her flesh, what is love? 

and what does it taste like? 

I do not say to her that I am ignorant 

that all my former actions were determined 

by loose ideologies, I do not 

answer from the catalogue of my failures 

I smile at her, because love is an archive 

where we store different answers, and

with my mouth sucking into hers

I began to teach her that new song I was singing.

photo credit: jamalthesapien