Poetry

 He is the original man

The man made by god’s own hands

He is Finer, more Tender, Sings better then all of the Men I’ve born

He has something from everything      everything Divine

He sails across the kitchen like wind

Smiles from across the kitchen like Jesus jumped down the cross 

He has something from every thing all things fetish cherished by

the Divine

He is gold    or honey    copper    orange?  Can be all of  ‘em          

     depending on the sun shining on his hair

He is white, like milk, or the early morning sky in Owen Sound 

He’s a thin blade of grass but he, that’s crazy, hugs trees, how can he?

I can’t believe it

Who knows what God’s been feeding him        I feed my son’s my own blood

I   I  wish wish to touch touch his touch    

I   I want want      to kiss      his his lips                     

see the inlay of his eyes

feel the thighs

measure the arms      

drink the heart

and bite on the fingers

Not really biting      I only want to suck on them

I love love to feel feel the tip tip of his tall fingers  

The fingers, I tell you, are slightly- brash-stems of Jasmines

I want want I want want to fall fall and wrap round him

     to see how the bones are laid in the flesh

I love to see the bastard shoulders    

I want to press my face over the brat navel 

Here, today, I announce, I refuse to use my womb unless God’s willing to teach me his craft

Look, look the Lute’s lying on his knees

Look, look the fingers tilt    up    tilt    down   tilt     on the neck

He’s wearing off-white pants    he’s bent     hair and all      over

I   I  need

to know

I need to know just how feminine is his virility  

He is the original man

The man made by god’s own hands

He He is the beginning         Takes his own path     

He will cry again

If he cries again  

If he cries again for his star far from here     I pull the moon down from behind the clouds

He’s been laughing all day yesterday        

I’ve had many unfinished businesses in my time, I don’t mind one more, but

I do not wish to walk out of the heaven of his room a NonBeliever

You see, this is not a matter between me and him, rather, the dispute is between me and the God, the Divine womb

 Adam

September 2006

Owen Sound

Saghi Ghahraman