If I were a
sculptor
I'd carve in
stone
The face of
my beloved
I'd sand the
surface
Of the stone
To smooth
perfection
Because art
should represent life
As it is, and
as
It ought to
be
But I digress
At a moment
when discipline
And precision
are most required…
I'd chisel
her perfectly
Centered nose,
on her perfectly
Symmetrical
face
With care and
concentration
I'd reproduce
the mystic
Contours of
her forehead
I'd round out
her chin
And save her
lips
For last
Then I'd compare
Her
sculptured features
To my own
A grotesque
genetic mixture
Of master and
slave
Of Native and
Negro
My weathered
face
Overexposed
and
Burned to a
deep hue
I'd ask her:
Is black
still beautiful
My African
queen?
My Goddess of
the Nile?
Or has that
fashion changed,
That style
gone out of style?
But I digress
again -
I am not
a sculptor
I am a poet
And these
words are
All I have to
preserve
In time, for
time,
The beauty of
my beloved