Cuba and Coltrane
1 min 16 secs
Cuba. I want to go to Cuba; where we planned to go
together. Still the smell of saving change reminds me—
we didn’t make it beyond the rabid Atlantic border.
You were too busy throwing boxes of Captain Crunch
in the yard. Too White for my kitchen, you said. To match
you, I threw your glossy bell peppers in the street spitting,
I don’t know how to cook this shit. In the back ground
the tart sound of A Love Supreme played between your
flesh, my flesh. Two things we could agree on: Coltrane
and Cuba. Everything else was a brood of anger hatching.
Bending to collect the scatter of yellow sugar-nuggets, I
watched you nurse a bruised pepper. Red heat in the palm