Pleasure Dome - Yusef Komunyakaa Wesleyan Poetry Series

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guardian angel lingers

      at the top of the stairs,

      counting each drop of sweat

      paid in tribute. The blonde

      has her eyes closed, & the brunette

      is looking at me. Our bodies

      sway to each riff, the jasmine

      rising from a valley somewhere

      in Egypt, a white moon

      opening countless false mouths

      of laughter. The midnight

      gatherers are boys & girls

      with the headlights of trucks

      aimed at their backs, because

      their small hands refuse to wound

      the knowing scent hidden in each bloom.

      She’s turning away, about to step

      out of the concave cuddle of Italian tiles

      before walking through the grand

      doorway to cross 42nd Street

      to glance up at The Glory of Commerce

      as she hails a yellow taxicab

      when he whispers, I love you, Harriet.

      Did he say something to himself,

      something he swore he’d never think

      again? Or, was she now limestone

      like Minerva, a half-revealed secret,

      her breasts insinuating the same

      domed wisdom? Maybe his mind

      was already heading home to Hoboken—

      his body facing hers—his unsure feet

      rushing to make a connection

      with Sinatra’s ghost

      among a trainload of love cries

      from the Rustic Cabin to Caesar’s Palace.

      Hugged there under the curved grandeur,

      she says, I love you, too, Johnny.

      Entangled in one motion

      of hues stolen from innuendo,

      their exulted limbs couple

      & uncouple till the bluish

      yellow fuses with three

      other ways of looking at this.

      With a touch of blood

      & congealed tempera,

      black & white faces surge

      through a nightlife

      sweating perfumed air.

      Their moves caught

      by brush strokes

      force us to now feel

      the band on an unseen

      stage. Bedazzlement

      & body chemistry …

      eyes on each other break

      the law. They work

      hard for fun, twirling

      through sighing loops

      of fray & splendor,

      watering down pain till naked

      hope glimmers in a shot glass.

      I wait outside the Beacon Hotel

      for a taxicab to La Guardia,

      & dead ringers for Memnon

      slink past. Here’s another.

      Wasn’t Aurora’s son

      killed fighting in Troy

      for the Trojans?

      His look-alikes stroll

      through glass towers

      & waylay each other’s shadows.

      How many southern roads

      brought their grandparents

      here? Why so many chalk-lined

      bodies mapping departure

      routes? The Daylight Boys

      haunt these footsteps tuned

      to rap & butterfly

      knives that grow into

      Saturday-night specials

      tucked inside jackets

      ensigned with Suns, Bulls …

      Ice. Ecstasy. Crack.

      Here’s another young,

      bad, good-looking one

      walking on air solid

      as the Memnon Colossi,

      & may not be here at dawn.

      I was on the corner

      when she paused

      at the crosswalk.

      If a cobra’s in a coil, it can’t

      take back its strike. Her

      purse was already in my hands

      when the first punch landed.

      She kept saying, “You won’t

      take nobody else’s money no

      more.” Her voice was like

      Mama’s. I couldn’t

      break free. Women & kids

      multiplied before me.

      At least thirty or forty.

      Everywhere. Kicking & biting.

      I kept saying, “I give

      up.” But they wouldn’t

      stop aiming at my balls.

      The sky tumbled. I was a

      star in a late-night movie

      where all these swallows—no,

      a throng of boys swooped

      like a cloud of birds

      & devoured a man

      on a lonely beach

      in Mexico, & somewhere

      outside Acapulco that damn

      squad of sunflowers

      blazed up around me.

      What I heard the stupid

      paramedics say scared me

      to death, as the bastards

      worked on my fucking heart.

      I don’t wish you were one

      of The Jackson Five

      tonight, only you were

      still inside yourself

      unchanged by the vampire

      moonlight.

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